


Ally: Life

by Fangu



Series: Ally: Life [2]
Category: Final Fantasy XII
Genre: Drama, F/M, Family, Friendship, Kidfic, Post-Game(s), Pre-Game(s), Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-29
Updated: 2014-02-22
Packaged: 2017-12-25 01:28:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 76,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/947010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fangu/pseuds/Fangu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fran is perfectly content with life as it is, roaming the skies with her Sky Pirate partner, taking paid hunts while occasionally relieving the wealthy for 'treasure'. This story begins when a cloud appears in Fran's empty, blue sky - a cloud in the shape of an Archadian upper class girl, at first appearing to be nothing but despicable, soon having Fran understand why she stirs something in Balthier. A change in the two old friends' dynamics seems inevitable.</p><p>Fran and Balthier's post-game (and pre-game) story told over a span of 20+ years.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Animals in the skies

**Author's Note:**

> Most of all, this story is kind of abusing the XII universe to tell a story I really wanted to tell, the one of a love that never was - if poking around in the coal enough can rekindle the flame. I do, however, try to stay as true to character as possible. It's a subtle story on life, love and politics, containing mature themes such as friendship, family issues, adultery, self denial of happiness and unrequited love. 
> 
> The story was written over a span of 7 months and is the lengthiest thing I have ever written, teaching me a lot about writing. Any comment, any at all, will be appreciated, no matter the length and content.

 

“Get her!!”

Fran hangs on to her leather pouch for dear life as she rushes through the ravine, a blur of rocks and bushes flying by, the breaths of five angry Bangaa nipping at her heels.

“I will hang you by your Vieran ears!” their leader shouts from far down in the valley, his foot soldiers running as fast as their crooked limbs will allow them, well aware their attempt at outrunning Fran’s tan, armoured legs is a futile one.

It is not from them she has stolen the jewels clinking in her pouch. These Bangaa are merely watchmen hired by an _entrepreneur,_ as rich blackguards of the upper class society of the City of Archades likes to refer to themselves. Liars, the lot of them, Fran thinks; deceivers, their sheen nothing but a facade covering up how each and every one of them would sell their own grandmother for a new pair of suspenders, ‘friends’ to them a term used for people whose opinions, or lack of them, can be exchanged for gil. Fran has been friendly with Archadian gentries on several occasions, in nearly all of them appearing as their latest acquired gem. Their highlight of the eve would be Fran, a tall, dark-skinned beauty on their arm, hers would be taking off with their wife’s crystal necklace at the end of the night.

This time she didn’t have to present herself in an itching gown to have every Hume male gawk at her - it was enough to sneak into the mansion and get the hell out. To her misfortune she’d missed one of the alarms when planning her escape, leading to the the current events of Bangaa heaving at her heels.

Not that she was ever in any real danger - it’s been only a few months since Fran and her sky pirate partner helped a princess reclaim her kingdom by use of sword and cunning both. From where Balthier is waiting for her on top of the stone stairs she is now climbing three steps at a time, he could easily have taken their heads off with his perfectly polished shotgun _Betelgeuse_ resting on his shoulder, a grin plastered across his face as he waits for her on his hoverbike.

“That took you long enough,” he shouts, mocking both her and the out of breath Bangaa tramping up the stairs behind her. He doesn’t move the bike a single foot to aid her, instead waits for Fran to take the strides needed to leap up behind him. With a twist of a hand sparkling with colourful rings and the firm stamp of a leather clad foot they are soon out of Bangaa reach.

“Very considerate,” Fran yells over the sound of machinery and sinks her claws that little extra into his side as their destination, their airship the _Strahl_ , appears in sight. Balthier flinches at the touch of her claws. “Fran, as your captain it is my duty to make sure you trim off that excess Flan you devoured so handsomely last week” he shouts. “I can’t have you struggling to outleg plump Bangaa.”

Fran snorts. Ever since her rabbit-looking ears reached their full height ages ago, she has worn the same size of garb. Over the five years she has known Balthier, his shoulders have grown to fit his shirt, yet Fran appears to Balthier as she did on the day they first met.

¨

In the heart of the Strahl, the cockpit, Balthier plots the course Fran has calculated into the ship’s autopilot program. They then go through the procedures, a routine they have done hundreds of times, Fran typing up the system logs, Balthier chewing on a pencil as he sits cross-legged and barefoot in his seat, updating the digital map to match the hand drawn one in his lap. “I think we’ve earned this,” he grins as he pulls out a bottle of brown, spicy liquid as he’s completed his tasks, pouring them two small glasses of the strong spirit. Content with a job well done, Balthier unties his vest, pulls it off and throw it in a corner, while Fran unstraps and pulls off her leg armour, swinging her legs onto the dashboard in front of her as she muses at the blue skies laid out in front of them.

Balthier raises his glass. “To your magnificent legs,” he declares, face completely serious. She smirks, and drinks to that; it was indeed her legs that brought their prize home.

Back at the pirate port of Balfonheim they unsaddle their airship and go straight to town to make sure the jewels are scattered over Ivalice as fast as possible. Regardless of stolen jewelry demanding fast exchange of hands, Balthier is very specific about finishing a job properly before celebrating victory. He claims it’s a preference of ending one thing before starting another, but Fran  knows it’s also related to how excruciating walking around in the crowds of Balfonheim in the sunlight can be when severely hung over. “To the Whitecap, our brothers and sisters are having a round on us tonight!” he proclaims, confirming Fran’s suspicions.

Fran enjoys their nights at taverns, it’s where they kick back and relax while getting the latest gossip from other pirates; piracy being a term not reserved for the types of activities Fran and Balthier has just undertaken, but a common term all over Ivalice for treasure hunting, transportation or simply travelling the world. Balthier was but seventeen when they entered the profession together, Balthier being on the run from everything, his fear hidden behind a mask of Archadian upper class arrogance. All his life he had done what was expected of him, only to realize those who asked something from him did not ask out of concern for his well being, despite how much they presented it as so - his father being the prime example. Cidolfus demen Bunansa, of the Archadian House Bunansa, pushed Balthier into the Achademy to train as a Judge, a prime soldier, stating Balthier was accepted at the early age of fifteen purely due to talent, which was a blatant lie. Cid Bunansa had used his contacts to push his last remaining son into the position he felt respectable enough for his last remaining heir. He was by no means the first father in Archades to do so.

It is not painless to learn that one’s father sees his child solely as possession. Even worse: A tool.

It took Balthier several months from his moment of realization to his moment of breaking free. He says he doesn’t know what held him back. “Denial,” he told Fran after roughly a year of acquaintance, when he trusted her enough to share the more delicate sides to his past. He eventually stole one of the Archadian army’s prototype ships, a ship simply named YPA-GB47 which, as he kept upgrading her, later renamed _the Strahl_ , leaving his old life completely, welcoming a new one as a carefree sky pirate.

Fran believes her being able to relate to leaving something permanently to be one of several reasons they understand each other. She herself left the village in the Woods she grew up in many years ago, leaving behind a life in which she felt she could not breathe. A few months ago the events of reclaiming Dalmasca for Princess Ashe had them both revisit their old homes, only to be reminded why they decided to leave. Balthier swears he does not miss Archades, but Fran thinks of how she dreams of Eruyt, and knows this claim from Balthier is one of the few lies left in the generous reserve of a born Archadian.

Balthier’s father was consumed by his greed. The Nethicite stones he seeked for power eventually led to his end. Fran has lived long enough to know that any overwhelming desire is a thing of destruction. The lessons she has learned from Humes is that they often fail to act rationally, to make the sensible choice, often sending them into an early grave. A life of contentment is a far better option, Fran believes.

¨

The inn and tavern by the name of The Whitecap is busy this evening. There isn’t even the smallest chance of fitting in by one of the large shared tables, so they sit outside on a small bench drinking ale while waiting for a seat. As they try spotting animals shapes in the few clouds above them, a Seeq with a camera walks up to them. “Your picture taken, good Sir and Madam?” He holds up a tiny camera against his blue shaded, generous perimeter, his tusks bending upwards as he smiles. “I can send it to you when it is done, I do very neat post-production effects.” “Can you take out her ears?” Balthier asks, Fran punching his arm, ale spilling onto his thigh. “Why,” he says, grinning, “you hate your ears”.

They agree on a price. Balthier and Fran puts down their ale and stands up, Balthier insisting on standing on the bench, which Fran finds incredibly silly. It is very obvious she is taller than him.

He puts his arm around her shoulder, Fran sighing at the well known curious touch of his fingers. “Bangaa fleaaaas” the Seeq says as the camera goes off and Balthier tries to grab Fran’s breast. As always he is a tad too slow. Her claws will leave a nice mark on his hand. “My lovers keep asking me if I have a cat,” Balthier says as they sit down.

An hour later they lean back content in their chairs as the barmaid is clearing their stamp sized table. Balthier is too full to even contemplate flirting with the generously sized wench, as would be normal procedure at this hour.

They are drinking Madhu, the wonderful, stubborn mead from the Sky City of Bhujerba. “We should go back there one day,” Balthier says, Fran half expecting him to start ranting about some blonde, busty girl he hasn’t been able to forget since the last time they were there. “I remember you were particularly fond of the armour shop,” he continues. Before she has a chance to reply, the barmaid comes back with more wine, Balthier telling her to pour a glass for everyone else present at the inn. Herself included, of course.

A Bangaa they know well, a fellow Clan member, walks over to their table to give thanks for the drink and hear the tale of today’s bounty. Balthier is midway in his story, painting a vivid picture of their evil Archadian counterpart, when Fran notices a girl watching them, standing a few tables away. She is well dressed in Rabanastran middle class clothes: earthy colors, long pants and a shirt that unlike Balfonheim fashion leaves everything up to the imagination. Her light hair is cropped just below her neck, and she is pretty, sort of noble looking - had anyone told Fran the girl was of Nabradian royal heritage she wouldn't have questioned them.

She is clearly listening to Balthier’s tale, shamelessly so, for eavesdropping without presenting your business straight forward is seen as rude in this part of Ivalice. Or in any port, for that matter.

“...what are we to do with these Archadian kings anyway,” Balthier spits. “They will never give up power, nor for any king or politician - for they are the ones providing the silk for the royal and well worded ones’ web. No, the only way to weaken their ranks is to relieve them of some resources,” Balthier grins and throws his feet up on the table, the Bangaa nodding intently.

Without further ado, the girl walks up to them. “You’re saying all Archadians spins lies and destruction?”

Balthier looks up at her with surprise, his face turning slowly into a smirk by what he sees. Fran watches him dress into his silver tongue.

“Not all of them, of course” he modulates himself. He looks her up and down, trying to determine his strategy. Fran rests her head in her palm. She has seen this too many times for it to be even remotely interesting. The Bangaa snorts and walks off, knowing he will have to be content with the story as it was told up until this point.

“So,” Balthier says, Fran waiting for his line, only halfway interested to find out if it will be one of the worn out ones, or if he values her enough to bother coming up with something new.

The girl glares at him. “Nothing you will ever say or do can interest me,” she snaps. “I do not bed with pirates.”

Fran sharpens her ears. This is a most unusual outcome.

Balthier frowns. “Hey now, what did I do to upset a beautiful lady like yourself?”

“Spare me your pitiful attempts. All I came over here to do was to stop your tongue from badmouthing people you barely know anything about.”

“Well then,” he says, his demeanour changing completely in a split second. “How would you propose we solve a problem like the one of gil hoarding richmen taking advantage of man and country alike?”

“The way to solve this situation is not to rob them blind” she huffs. Balthier looks up towards the ceiling, clearly annoyed by this righteous girl who is too pretty to keep in his visual space when he so obviously has no chance with her.

“Woman,” he tells her, Fran watching the girl take the bait completely, “there is no way to ‘resolve’ a situation of Archadian millionaires who insists on scraping regular hard working citizens of gil.” He uses his arms to illustrate his point. “The only thing that works is to take their excess, then give it back to the people. Simple as that.”

She folds her arms. “After you’ve had your share, I presume?”

Balthier grins. “I swear, my partner and I only keep a discreet share. Only what we need to keep our ship flying and our bodies functioning.”

She gestures towards the bottles on their table.

“...and to keep you well fed and intoxicated.” She glances around the room. “The both of you as well as anyone to happens to be in this bar.” She sinks her eyes into him. “No wonder you have so many friends”.

Uh oh. Low-blow. Fran’s ear twitch as she watches Balthier go from annoyed to angry. He sits up, taking his feet off the table, planting them to the floor. For only having talked to him for three minutes, this girl certainly knows how to work him.

“Now you listen,” he says, threatening her with a pointed finger, “I understand your kind. You higher-class born well educated daddy’s girls.”

Judging from her expression he knows how to work her as well.

“You believe that because something was written down by a scholar, it represents the truth. When the fact is, people walking the surface of cities like the City of Archades know next to squat about the real word. Forget ‘right’ or ‘wrong’ missy, forget your politics - down here it’s a matter of survival. Look around you. Do you think people in this place can afford to plan for years ahead?” He gestures around him. “We’ll I’ll tell you they don’t. They live from day to day, hand to mouth, and from their point of view, they have just enough to feed their families and sleep under a crooked roof, while the people you’re trying to defend are resting their asses comfortably on a cushion of crimson and gold.”

She open her mouth to speak, but before she has the chance he cocks her head and says “...and don’t look at me like I’m only saying this because I am uneducated. Believe me, I know more than enough of Archadian lifestyle.” The last part he says in a thick, genuine Archades upper class accent.

She shuts her mouth tight.

“I’m not telling you my House,” he replies to her question before she has the chance to ask it. Then he puts on his most charming smile and pulls out a chair for her. “Now, could I interested you in some excellent Bhujerban Madhu?”

Claire quickly glances around the room, clan hunters, pirates and travelling merchant mingling into a mix you would never see in the City of Archades. Her face turns back to Balthier, for a short moment looking vulnerable, then she sits down, offering her hand to Fran. Her handshake is neither firm nor loose. “Claire,” she says. “Claire of House what-do-you-care,” she adds, giving Balthier a sour look.

During this first night of acquaintances, they learn several things about Claire. The first is, she’s not as awful as they presumed. She’s just very faithful to her ideas, and, rare for a person to mention outside of Archades, proud to be Archadian. She laughs at a joke or two and doesn’t insult _every_ person in the room behind their back.

The second thing is, even for being an Archadian upper class girl, she is a weapons apprentice. At the moment she is stationed at Rabanastre. “When I decided Archades could stuff it and escaped it a few years ago,” Balthier slurs to Fran when Claire is most likely repulsed about using the hole in the ground around the corner, “it was starting to become this thing for upper class children to take interest in the skills of the common people. I kid you not,” he says as Fran cocks an eyebrow, “even fashion was influenced by the lower ranks. One year you’d see a classmate with expensive, red silk. The next he’s walking around in a grey tunic.” He chuckles at that and shakes his head. “It’s what happens when people have too much money and too much free time on their hands, Fran.”

The third thing they learn about her is, she is lost. Not just metaphorically, as Balthier snorts when they are shambling home to the Strahl. She was not meant to end up in Balfonheim. She was on one of the official airship routes when the airship broke down and had to land here. The repairs took several more hours than the crew first anticipated, leading to a mistake in the communication to the passengers. When she returned to the Aerodrome she found an empty hangar. She’d been lost as to what to do, so she’d wandered down the docks for a while, freaked out by a few things, fascinated by others, before she’d entered the Whitecap to pay for a place to sleep.

And so she ended up at Fran and Balthier’s table.

She is not an eager Madhu drinker, to Balthier’s disappointment. When he gave her the first cup she wrinkled her nose. By the time she’s pressed down half a glass, Balthier is halfway into the second bottle, which is the appropriate amount to make him find excuses to touch people. As he is talking to Fran, he grabs her arm. He always does this when he’s on the Madhu wagon. His hearing ability drops too. As he is telling Fran his story, Claire tries to ask him something two times, the Bangaa on the table next to them shouts his name thrice. It’s not until someone drops a tray of glass, making a huge racket, he finally looks up, then purely out of instinct imprinted from five years of pirate life.

The atmosphere in the tavern is getting quite jolly. The Bangaa stands up on the table to sing one of the well known hymns of praise to the purple liquid. _Come all, wet your lips on Bhujerban Madhu,_ he starts, making several men, Balthier included, get up on their chairs to finish the verse, then start it all over again.

_Come all, wet your lips on Bhujerban Madhu,_  
 _the finest there is, I promise you this,_  
 _no girl can say no to a bottle or two!_  
 _When she cries for more then you know what to do!_

“Charming,” Claire says to Fran.

When the lads are into the second verse, threatening to knock themselves and their precious Madhu off the table, Claire gets up from her chair and looks at Fran. “Join me outside for some air?”

Fran doesn’t know if Claire is asking her because it is Fran she wants to talk to, or simply because she is the least inconvenient person to ask. She has her suspicions.

Outside the night air is comfortably cool and fresh. Fran enjoys the salt in the air and the sound of waves lapping towards the shore.

“Would you mind if I ask you something?” Fran says to the girl when they have stood in silence for a couple of minutes.

“Of course not,” Claire replies a little too welcoming.

“Do not take my intentions wrong for how I word this question,” Fran says, making the girl’s eyes flicker ever so slightly. “But why weaponry?”

Claire chews on her answer. Fran suspects she has mastered the art of wording out any answer just right, as Balthier used to do when she first met him. Every reply he would give would be ever so slightly tainted with sarcasm, and he would never say anything if he didn't know it to be perfectly accurate. He used to loathe being corrected. Even today when she points out a flaw in his plan, he almost always has to argue with her for the sake of argumentation. Thankfully nowadays he does it with more humour than graveness. He finally trusts her intention to not being making him look bad.

She does believe the girl will not stay this way forever. As she sees it, there is two roads for her to go down. Either she will go back and become a full blooded Archadian, marrying someone her rank and keep herself busy talking behind her acquaintance’s backs at boring parties where they certainly won’t be serving Bhujerban Madhu - or, she will find something along the way, some kind of enlightenment, something that allows her to trust, that opens her up a little. Because one thing is certain, the girl is strung up as a well tight bow.

“I used to enjoy the stories in the books in my father’s library,” she says. “He had many books, some with illustrations, of beautiful weapons and armour, unlike anything I’d ever seen before. I went to the museum to look at some of them. I don’t know,” she shrugs, “I found them inspiring, somehow. Made cleverly, and with care.” The discontent is back in her voice. “Not something completely stiff and masculine as Archadian armour.”

There is honesty in her words. The fact still remains that Claire started learning about weaponry out of interest. Fran had to learn in order to survive.

“Tell me something, Fran,” Claire says, not repaying the courtesy of asking before asking, “do you not find it strange how so many non-Humes leave their birthplace to venture into Hume land, when it so rarely happens the other way around?” Her expression is straightforward, impossible to read.

 _You and I will never be good friends_ , Fran thinks to herself.

¨

The next day Balthier and Fran are having breakfast in The Whitecap when a gang of shady looking Humes enter. Balthier is adding more salt to his overly salted slice of ham as Fran tunes her ears to pick up on their conversation. “...was here last night. Dunno if she’s still here,” the barkeep says. He has clearly taken a bribe already. “...ship to Archades, got held up. We ask the guests to leave by noon.” And then, “Seven.”

Fran nudges Balthier with her foot under the table. “What,” he says annoyed, his head still mending from a bottle or three of too much Madhu. Which, by the way, several girls were perfectly able to say no to yesterday.

Fran drops a piece of bread to the floor. “I think the cat is fat enough already” he says as he bends down with her. As she reaches for the bread with her claws, she whispers “they are looking for the girl. Room seven. Yesterday she was at the docks.” As they sit up, Balthier brushes dust off the bread and finishes his fruit juice.

“Good day,” he calls to the barkeep as they head out.

“So this House, they’ve got gil?” Fran asks as they head down a narrow alleyway. “Uh huh. Most likely Hostegar or Lamont. Maybe Lhusu. Either way, they’ll be stuffed.” He looks up at the sun. “Elevenish. Do you think she knows?”

Fran frowns. “Last night she didn’t give off any impression she was being chased. But she is not easy to read. She appeared to be very private, but…” she doesn’t have to finish the sentence.

“A child of Archades.” Balthier nods. “Either way, if she doesn’t believe us, we’ll just wait for them to come for her.” He sighs and touches his forehead. “This isn’t really a day for saving snotty girls from kidnappers.”

They find her down by the docks, sitting with some kids trying to catch fish. She barely greets them.

They move in on her slowly from each their side, surrounding her to block her way up to the path. The kids she is sitting with instinctively takes their fishing rods and leaves. “Say Fran,” Balthier says as he’s looking out to sea, “those friends of yours who came by this morning, you think their intentions were any good?”

Claire’s expression stiffens. She stands up slowly.

“You scum,” she hisses at Balthier. “I knew I couldn’t trust you.”

“Relax,” he says nonchalant. “We’re not trying to make money off of kidnapping you.” He turns around as he spots the group of men working their way down to the docs. “We’re merely trying to make money off of saving you from those who do.”

She turns her head slowly, the fear in her eyes obvious when she sees them. Pale, wide-eyed, she turns back to Balthier.

“Fine,” she says, clearly apprehensive. “I’ll go with you.”

Fifteen minutes later they have successfully snuck their next meal ticket on board the Strahl, dashing off towards the skies.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to the wonderful [LicoriceAllsorts](http://reglissenoire.tumblr.com) for post-posting-Beta'ing this chapter for me <3


	2. Stuck on repeat

 

If the Strahl ever felt crowded with just the two of them aboard, three is a free for all banquet in Rabanastre on a hot summer’s day.

Claire protests when she is told to sleep in the hallway. She is paying them for this, after all. A sudden change of story this is, Fran thinks, when only moments ago the girl was left with no other option.

In the end Balthier has to give her his bunk to stop the constant stream of noise coming out of her mouth. It is just for one night anyway - they have to stop for more skystones and to do a small, but necessary engine service they’ve already put off for weeks, leaving them grounded for one night before they can continue their voyage into Archadia.

Balthier moves some of his stuff out from his tiny bedroom to store temporarily behind his seat in the cockpit, cluttering the small space up. His boots rolls down into the foot of Fran’s seat every time the ship tilts, making the most annoying thump. Balthier has to put off tying the shoes to his seat as Claire's next demands is he change the sheets on his bed for her. “Will I find dirty magazines under your mattress?” she yells after him when he goes off to look for the spare sheets Fran knows they do not have.

When Claire finds out they do not intend to take her all the way to Archades City, she is furious. “Politics, love”, Balthier says as they’re landing. “The Strahl is legally registered to me anywhere in Ivalice, save for your precious home city. It’s Rabanastre, or one of the villages at the border. It’s up to you.” She chooses the latter, telling them this will be another cut in their reward, the first being for letting her sleep on a bare mattress. Which, she adds, has a suspicious smell.

During ground time, Balthier puts her to use cleaning his guns. She accepts the job as it gives her something to do to make time pass until she, by her own words, "is clear of this mess”. She unfolds the stained sheet (“so this is where your linens end up”), picks the guns apart carefully, placing the different parts neatly in a pattern in case she should forget where they go. Balthier does the mistake of pointing this out to her. She doesn’t go back to the disassembled weapons for hours, venturing off outside the Strahl only to realize they’re in the middle of nowhere (“how the hell did those Moogles decide this hole would be an excellent spot to set up shop?”) while Fran has to tread carefully to avoid stumbling over them in fear of breaking any parts or hurting her feet.

Fran has retreated to her bunk working on a new prototype of poison arrows as Balthier peeks in her door. His expression reads _Holy mother of Shiva_. Fran’s ears flick in amusement and she gestures for him to come in. He sits down at the end of her bed and puts a hands over his face.

“Remind me to not not-ransom spoiled girls from Archades ever again”, he moans.

“Careful”, Fran teases, “she might hear you. Wouldn’t want our losses to be cut completely due to offending the not-ransomee.”

Balthier throws his head back into the wall and bangs it back a couple of times. “Why are girls all so wrong”, he moans. “Either they are too young, or too old, or too well-fed, or too sickly looking. Most are too ugly, or too dumb, and if they are not, they’re --” he points in the direction of his room “-- that”. He closes his eyes and slides further down into her bed. “I swear Fran, if all women were like you.”

She nods in agreement, amused. “It is a good point.”

He doesn’t reply. He also seems strangely dissatisfied with her answer.

Their communication is natural because they know each other so well. Being with Balthier all day, everyday, is something she has grown accustomed to - it never feels strange to be around him.

Yet sometimes, in a silent moments like this, this feeling appears Fran can’t put her finger on. It’s something unmentionable - a void, somehow. It is the one thing of which they never speak, which they never resolve - and thankfully so, she believes.

If it was so, Fran thinks, that Balthier should want for him and her to be more than partners, it would be a terrible idea. Everything speaks against their match. Fran is Viera, for one. Second, he is still so young, even for Hume. He can’t possibly know what he wants in a life long companion. Eventually he would find her not suited to his taste, waking up one morning realizing she is something different than he intended.

Third, she doesn’t think his wishes - should he harbour them - to be at all that serious. He sees her every day. If you hang around a peachtree long enough, you’ll want peaches. Simple as that. Even so, should Balthier’s interest resemble anything close to real, he would be wrong to act on them. Balthier will grow into a man, and a man will eventually want something else than this life of roaming the skies, without kin; in an airship, where no plants will grow. Such a life is her fate. It does not have to be his.

This is why every time he gets near her, she shrugs him off. She believes it to be either a boyish attempt at having her - he has a healthy appetite like any Hume male his age, she knows enough of his love life to know - or he is simply craving companionship, someone for the pillow talk, which he usually skips by leaving his lovers before dawn. If he spent a bit more time with them, he’d might even forget about Fran being a woman.

The bottom line is, if he wants conversation, she will talk to him. Anything resembling wishes that goes beyond that, she will ignore - wave off as a glass of chilled white wine offered at a winter banquet.

“Has our lady been concluded to be sky worthy?” she asks conversationally.

She is about to nudge him with a foot as he finally says “Mhm.” Then he gets up from her bed and heads for the door. “We’re all set for the trip. We’ll take off just before sunrise and land not long after.” He pauses at the door, flicking the flaking paint on it with his fingers. “Good night”, he mutters.

“Sleep well” she replies, adding “if you are able to”. He snorts a laugh, but his expression is closed, as if the reason he won’t be getting much sleep tonight isn’t caused by having to spend the night in his captain’s chair.

¨

They land in East Sochen not long after sunrise. Balthier is massaging his stiff neck as he pilots the ship down into a clear field, morning sun peeking in through the cockpit window.

Claire trots up between them. “Finally. Now let me call my father’s office so we can settle this absurdity as fast as possible.”

They have no proper headset or phone for the com - the last one was destroyed when Balthier needed a thin, small object to temporarily hold up the broken kitchen sink. They haven’t seen the need to get a new one as neither of them ever make any personal calls. This means the call is on loudspeak as Claire is being patched through to her father by his secretary.

The head of Lhusu Cooperations sounds brisk, unimpressed. He barely remarks something about how she appears to be alive. Claire explains the situation and asks her father to transfer five thousand gil to her account so she can pay them for transporting her safely to the borders of the City of Archades.

“You’re saying I am to transfer five thousand to pay a couple of sky pirates for saving you from a couple of kidnappers.”

“They gave me a bed and proper meals, and I am here now, safe.” She is fidgeting.

Marc Lhusu pauses. “First of all, let’s just ignore the fact that you’ve already spent the fifty thousand I had wired to Rabanastre only a few weeks ago. What did you spend those on? Clothes? Jewellery? Showering all of your new friends with expensive wine? Nevermind, let us not speak more of your extensive lack of understanding of finances, let us rather speak of your extensive lack of general sense. These pirates claim to have nobly spared me from having to cover a much bigger ransom, and now they’re asking for a ‘transport fee’. Which is a lot less work than arranging an actual ransom exchange.”

Balthier and Fran exchange looks.

“Did you not realize these two probably set up the entire thing? And now you’re blindly putting a straw into daddys endless gil reserve.”

Claire looks pale.

Balthier shoots in, saving Claire the embarrassment of making it too painfully obvious how she has no proper reply. “Mr. Lhusu, this is Balthier, captain of the air vessel the Strahl. I assure you your daughter is telling the truth. I do not have the names of the men who wanted to take her, but I can get those names for you within a couple of hours.”

Mr. Lhusu scoffs. “A pirate’s words. Should they be true, it doesn’t matter. I will not have my fortune go so conveniently to aiding the ongoing robberies of my fellow Archadian brothers. I will tell you this: You will have nothing from me. Should you want any of my gil you at least trouble yourself to arrange a proper kidnapping, as you are proper pirates, and nothing else. You might have fooled my daughter, but you are not fooling me. You have chosen a life as an outlaw, and as that you will live, without honor, Mr. Bunansa.”

Claire shoots Balthier a look.

“So as I said, let her go, or state the business which better fits your new title. Then we can discuss the ransom.”

“Father, wait until mother hears of this!” Claire exclaims, clearly surprised.

“Your mother will be told how her spoilt, senseless daughter failed to do such a simple thing as getting on an airship for home. It will be a great argument for ending this apprentice madness, which was a pointless idea to begin with. All the things I do to please you women, and see where it leads me.” The com crinkles. “Now please excuse me, I have work to do. Call me back should you manage to resolve this ridiculousness. Farewell.”

The line cuts off.

“That was less than successful”, Balthier says after a few moments of complete silence has passed. Claire remains still.

Balthier stretches his arms and yawns. “Okay. Options.” He looks at Fran. “Are we really gonna bother with this?” Claire turns around and looks at him. Her expression resembles an Ice-struck Bomb.

Fran shrugs. “Gil situation is fine for now.”

Claire looks at Fran, then back at Balthier. “You… you’re sitting there talking about whether or not you’re gonna tie me up and ask for money in exchange for my life.” There’s complexion returning to her face - a bit too much of it.

Balthier smiles a charming smile. Claire seems like she is about to self-destruct like the aforementioned Bomb as he says “Must be your lucky day, love. Fran and I have decided we’re not gonna bother staining our cuffs by bargaining with a shark.”

Claire looks confused, as if she’s wondering if time just skipped forward a few seconds.

“So you’re saying I’m free to go?”

Balthier gestures an affirmative. “Unless you want to cross over to the shady side and help us out, of course.”

Fran’s left ear twitch.

Claire cocks an eyebrow. “What the hell would I be helping you with? Sheet purchases?”

“Information.” Balthier grins mischievously. “You have fresh intel on Archades City - and some of its finest houses. This is your opportunity to get the hell out of that place and life a proper life. I heard how the man talks to you. Clearly he has no use for you, if he ever did. The same probably goes for the entire of Archades.”

For a moment it is as if a shadow passes over Claire’s face. Then she regains herself, expression blank, turning sweet. “A proper life”.

Balthier shrugs, the back of his head resting in his hands, his face honest and welcoming.

Claire shifts her weight and smirks. “You mean proper as in stealing, cheating, lying your way through your days, drinking awful spiced wines with the breeds of the underworld.” Fran blinks. “Oh yes, I’d much rather prefer sleeping in an airship on the same sheet for several months. Living like an outlaw having to pack up and leave in a blink. You honestly think I’d leave a proper home and a proper family for _this_? I mean look at you.” She does just that, and with disgust. “You two left, deciding one day your life and the people in it weren’t good enough for you, and see where it got you. How you can be proud of this life is beyond me.”

Balthier’s eyes darken. He rapidly leans forward in his chair. “Tell me something, Claire. When was the last time you made a decision any of your parents approved of?”

Claire’s control then shatters. “You know nothing”, she yells. “Don’t take it out on me that Archades didn’t want you. You were cast out like a dog with fleas, and a dog you are. I will remain at your flee house no longer. You keep enjoying your animal lives, both of you.” She shoots Fran’s ears a vile look as she says the latter. Seconds later she storms out of the cockpit.

“Well then”, Balthier says as they’ve watched her huff of. “I guess that means peace is restored.” He turns towards his control panel to start the post-landing procedures. “Now, East Sochen. What kind of work can an Arcades border-town offer, I wonder?”

 _The wood be thanked_ , Fran thinks.

¨

To their disappointment the boards at the backwater village that is East Sochen offers nothing of interest. They have breakfast at the local tavern, looking at maps and making small notes about the few hunts they see posted. The waitress glances that little extra at Fran’s tight bodice and bare thighs as she’s refilling their coffee mugs.

There is a small market in town, travelling merchants selling some things you could use and all kinds of things you would never want. They walk past the small shops, noticing how few Bangaas there seems to be in this town. A market without Bangaa feels like the Whitecap with no ale: Strange. The same goes for Seeq. This place seems to be a Humes favorite first and foremost.

It’s a long time since Fran ever felt unsafe, and this small town can offer nothing to challenge this feeling. However at this moment she feels slightly uncomfortable. There are too many eyes on her. It shouldn’t surprise her that things are this way this far up north in Archadia, especially this close to the City of Archades. The old Archadia, the one not counting Nabradia, has almost always been populated by Humes mostly. The last time she was in Archades City she saw one or two Seeq, a couple of Nu Mou’s, but not a single Viera. She suspects the few ones who are there are kept inside the larger houses as possessions - their employees having pointed out to them that to fulfill their end of the deal - the one where all they have to do in exchange for gil is to remain beautiful - they are not allowed to leave the house to walk around the city streets like some common person.

A couple of men Balthier’s age are standing near one of the clothing shops when they see Balthier and Fran approaching. They exchange whispers, staring at Fran’s ears, then her hands - then at everything else. Fran remains unaffected - this is nothing new to her. Balthier though stops cold and crosses his arms.

She’s never understood how Balthier can make people change their minds just like that. He doesn’t appear specifically frightening to her. He’s not particularly tall, or muscled - he’s not even keeping a sword. He just manages to portray he means business, and for some reason, it works. The two men scoffs, smirks and turns back to the shop.

A familiar voice speaks up behind them. "People aren't used to Viera in this area." They turn to face her. Claire looks at Fran. "Or how they dress."

Balthier smiles lightly. "Understandable, as not everybody has legs like Fran." Claire's face turns from sweet to sour.

"You didn't get very far", he smirks. Claire looks down at her boots. "They're not letting me through. Can you believe this? They don't believe I will be able to take care of myself. I have to find money to pay for a friggin chaperone." She hesitates. She clearly didn’t expect this. In Dalmasca, in which Rabanastre belongs, men don't insist so heavily on keeping men as men and women as children, Fran thinks. The girl has probably never been afoot by herself within her home country borders, always being taken in an airship or a buggy.

"Well don't look at me", Balthier says. "I don't work for free. We have to earn a living to pay for dog food." Claire looks like she wants to apologize for something, but as expected she remains quiet.

"I have a friend I could ask." She grimaces. "I just don't want to owe him money."

"That's a shame", Balthier shrugs. "There's a chance your friend wouldn't be able to afford it anyway. There must be a serious amount of wealth awaiting me if I was to deign myself to head into the City of Archades."

Claire looks at him. "Like your inheritance?"

Fran turns quickly to look at Balthier. Balthier looks at Claire. He smiles. Sweetly.

"I have no need of Draklor blood money.” He waves it off. “It’s probably all gone anyway, I'm pretty sure there were enough relatives to pick the estate apart."

Claire looks as if she finally has the upper hand. "They can't get to it."

Balthier twitches ever so slightly. This is new, Fran thinks.

"Oh?"

Claire smirks. "Information, darling. Both you and I know there’s nothing more valuable in both Old and New Archades than the currency of words."

"...and information costs." There’s approval in Balthier’s voice.

Fran feels like at a cockatrice race where the winner is announced before the birds have even crossed the finish line. This situation is turning into something she is having problems grasping too fast for her taste.

"It's still gonna cost you", Balthier says, his voice light, though unable to hide his clear interest.

"I have a collection of daggers back at Rabanastre. They should sell for enough."

"Fine," Balthier then says, sealing the deal way too fast for his usual style. "I'll go with you."

Fran's left ear twitch.

¨

"It's a pool of possibilities, Fran" Balthier says as he's packing provisions for the trek. They’re in the maintenance room in the back of the Strahl. "It’s a chance to gain valuable information that will most definitely come to our benefit.” He sounds excited. “And not only that. This is an opportunity to help our brothers and sisters of Ivalice. Me might find something to take down those nasty entrepreneurs."

“You never told me about your fortune”, she says.

Balthier shrugs. “I’m surprised you never put two and two together. But then again, I’m sure inheritance is a strange word to Viera.”

At that, he is right. Most Viera never leave offspring to inherit them, so whatever little they own when they enter the afterlife all goes to the benefit of everyone.

“So what happens now?” she asks as she’s flicking through the entries on the airship log. Balthier is trying to decide which augment bottles to take. “We take the girl to Archades, she gives me what I want. Shouldn’t take long. It’s a couple of hours on foot to the nearest train station, then about half an hour’s ride into the city. We might have to spend a night there, but no more than that.” He pauses and looks at the flask he’s holding. “Just as long as it takes for me to sort things out.”

Fran flips through a list in the log. “What kind of things?” she says, the screen making her face glimmer in green. Balthier continues packing. He does not answer. “Well?” she says, her voice noticeably impatient for being hers. Balthier halts his movement. “It’s nothing you need to worry about.”

Fran turns away from the screen and looks at him. Her ears are facing forward, the hardness in them much enhanced.

Balthier sighs. “I intend to try to get some cash out of the values left by my loving father. There will be people claiming I have lost my right to any of it, but my case is looking much stronger than it was before this morning. See, I thought my inheritance was lost forever. Now apparently, something prevented that inheritance from being scattered when my father died. I must find out what happened. Claire knows something, which she is clever enough to hold back until we get to the city.”

Fran closes her eyes. “I thought none of that mattered to you anymore.”

Balthier’s face hardens ever so slightly as he goes back to finishing his packing. “Remember it is also for a good cause, Fran. Information can help us rid of those millionaire bloodsuckers. We can’t be afraid to stick our hands into the beehive if we want the honey. I’m not afraid to go to Archades, those scoundrels can do nothing to me.”

“There are other woods where honey can be found.”

“Aye. But this honey is particularly sweet, Fran. The sweetest there is.”

 _Vengeance is not sweet_ , Fran thinks. _It is nothing but bitter_.

¨

With Fran and Balthier with her, Claire is finally let through the gates to the wildlands within the borders of the City of Archades, sending the guard her foulest glance as a thank you.

They set off through the golden landscape dabbled with rocks and green bushes, the occasional small tree pointing up towards the blue skies above them. In daylight the area doesn’t seem hostile, however as Fran and Balthier knows, during night time it is a different story.

The only beast that approaches them are a few Coeurls. Balthier lets Claire have the honors - she needs three hits with her crossbow to take down the first. Fran takes down the two others with less. For the fourth one approaching, Claire asks Balthier to borrow his gun. She wastes several of his bullets as he collects the bolts sticking out from all over the first one she took down. “You girls and your darts” he teases. “Always preferring to sneak around in silence.” At that he smiles warmly at Fran. “You should learn how to make more noise.”

They are walking through a large ravine as Balthier yet again seems tired of silence.

“So Claire, in all honesty”, he says. She turns to him, seeming eager enough to listen to whatever he’s about to say. “You’re happy with your apprenticeship in Rabanastre. You seem like a capable girl of good genes, clever enough to not trip into a river, anyway.” Claire almost looks flattered. “Your father is clearly having a temporary moment of insanity.” Very diplomatic, Fran thinks. “Even so, Archades is not the only good place to live. Sometimes it’s quite refreshing to meet new people.”

Claire hasn’t cut his head off. Yet. “Your point?”

Balthier shrugs. “Why are you so intent on going back to Archades? You were only going to stay for a couple of weeks anyway. You might as well had gone back to Rabanastre.”

“I could ask you the same thing. Why are you so dead set on going back there if you love buzzing around in that metal bucket so much?”

“Honey, I don’t care whatever abominations you decide to call me, but be careful when you address my airship.” He turns to look at Fran. “And my crew too, for that matter.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“As you didn’t answer mine”, he parrys.

She pulls a face. “I promised my mother.”

“That’s it?”

She shrugs. “I’m upholding my end of the deal. My mother said she’d ask my father for me to be stationed in ‘Raster if I promised to go home now and then to visit.” She kicks a stone lying on the path. “Your turn.”

“I took pity on this pretty girl I just met.”

Fran expects her to scold him, but instead she grins and punches him in the arm.

¨

They reach the train station a couple of hours later. To avoid any ruckus, Balthier pays for tickets. Getting caught could mean problems, as Balthier is still noted down as the prime suspect for the theft of the Strahl. He does not know how serious his crime is still considered to be in Archades.

They arrive in the city about half an hour later. Fran remembers the smell of it too well - _Archades reeks of a different filth_ Balthier told the party the last time they arrived here, when street urchin Vaan pointed out the smell of the worn down streets of Old Archades. The people here seems oblivious to the world outside of their little bubble. She can somewhat understand why Viera would stay in the wood - for the green word. She can not, however, understand why people would want to stay in a place where its inhabitants, even for all their education, clearly hold no curiosity whatsoever about the people in the rest of the world.

“Should you decide to cough up some gil, this is where you can find us”, he tells Claire as they are standing outside one of the less expensive inns. “After all selling daggers takes time. Fast cash is always preferred.”

Claire shakes their hands - Balthier’s a little longer than Fran’s. Then she disappears into the crowd. Balthier continues to look at the crowd even after she is out of sight.

“Right”, he says. “Let’s get down to business.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew. What was initially going to be chapter 2 was broken down into two. The first part I then broke into two again, the first of these ending up as the final chapter 2. Stuff just keeps growing on me - there are so many more descriptions I want to put in, but I don't want the story to lose momentum. Aaa it's hard!
> 
> XII players paying attention know there are two beds in the small hall next to the cockpit of the Strahl. Those beds aren't there anymore in my story, they are replaced with smaller rooms. I'll probably be explaining a bit about Balthier's post game redesigns later. He's been redesigning it since he stole it, so why should he stop now .)


	3. Aim, fire

 

During their journey to the City of Archades, Claire revealed to Balthier what she’d discovered about his previously believed to be lost forever inheritance.

After learning the name of his House she’d done some basic research. (“My father is not the only one to have access to information.”) She’d consulted a friend of a friend whose father was the Chief of Finances at Draklor at the time Balthier’s father died roughly a year ago. He had revealed to Claire that following Cidolfus Demen Bunansa’s death, several relatives, business partners and even representatives of the City had gathered for the reading of the will of the late Head of Science Research at Draklor Laboratory. In Archades, your wealth to a certain degree follow your employment, meaning when Cid Bunansa went down, he took some of Draklor’s much valuated stocks with him. Several citizens had expected some of these stocks to be transmitted to their companies - and, of course, also expecting said stocks to be of decent worth.

Most of the reading of the testimony had gone as anticipated, except for the last part, which had several well fed city councillors choke on their overly sugared tea.

The will read “My one remaining son, Ffamran, will receive what is left.”

This simple line was not anything particular to frown upon by itself. In Archades it is seen as common procedure to put a sentence like this at the end of your will when you’ve deemed your heirs unworthy of your fortune. After all, an Archadian gentleman would never leave his children with nothing.

What was noticeable about this particular line was how it was read out aloud much sooner than expected. Cid Bunansa had been so obsessed with his Nethicite stones he had clearly forgotten to check up on the main figures of his well-run laboratory division - for years. The final part of the estate, which was probably meant to be but a scrape, now turned out to be a significant amount - just sitting there, unreachable, waiting for a once prodigal son of House Bunansa to return. Which was most likely never going to happen. If the headhunters didn’t get to him first, the gentries were sure he would sooner or later rot in a ditch somewhere, robbed of his clothes, possessions and last bit of dignity altogether - if he wasn’t already rotting, as some of them believed, inside the Sky Fortress Bahamut, the reports of visuals of him and his airship around Ivalice claimed to be nothing but baseless rumours.

Several things were attempted from different sides by different means, but “whatever is left” is hardly disputable. You take an amount, withdraw some others, and whatever you’re left with - is what is left. It was a fix causing severe headaches to Archadian gentrys who’d already counted Cid Bunansa’s remains in the form of company shares into their pension plan.

This is probably why Balthier and Fran at this moment are sitting by the marvellous, huge oak table in the boardroom opposite not just one solicitor from Draklor, but three - as well as another of these highly respected lawmen, this one being from the City Council - along with two City councillors and a few other gentries deemed important.

When Balthier first trotted up to the gates of Draklor, he had to ask the guard three times to make a call up to the office of the head solicitor, whose jaw dropped completely at the sight of Balthier. “You. I - I heard rumours you were here last year, but you were gone before anyone could locate you.” Pause. “Ehm, please enter.”

He had taken them into one of the waiting lounges, well dressed Draklor administration workers frowning at the sight of the dirty, overly pierced pirate and his freakishly tall, armoured Viera companion. A clearly nervous serving girl had served them tea and sandwiches, not seeming any less apprehensive despite Balthier’s courteous, proper Archadian manners.

After an hour they were led into the huge boardroom down the hall, exquisitly furnitured, excotic plants in bronze pots in every corner, and huge, spotless windows showing a marvellous view of the City of Archades. Seated already, having showed up on extremely short notice, were the men who are now glaring at them from across the table.

They are arguing over whether Balthier is eligible to his wealth or not, as he is, after all, a wanted criminal.

“I can’t believe you have the nerve to walk straight into this building”, one of the older Gentrys huffs, looking almost afraid of Balthier, like he’s there to rob him of both his wife and his three mistresses as well as the diamond Adamantitan priding the first hall of his holiday mansion in Cerobi.

It seems their own love for the written word and rule is kicking them in the shins - they can not find a loophole to make the connection of ‘criminal’ and ‘unworthy’ satisfying enough to defend an action of legally stripping Balthier of his rightful devise.

“I want the funds transferred to an account set up in my name”, Balthier says nonchalant, his words turning the faces of most of the men slightly red. “As for my crimes, feel free to sound the alarm. The prototype airship I still hold in my possession. It is not lost to gambling as most of you would have each other believe.” The gentlemen mutter into their beards. “It is waiting somewhere safe outside the city borders. I will gladly take someone with me to have her handed over. All you have to do is look me up - we’re staying at The Orchid.” He stands up abruptly, the eyes of the men flickering for a split second as if they’ve witnessed the manifestation of a ghost. “Now gentlemen, if you’ll excuse me.”

As she stands up, Fran doesn’t believe for a single moment the men will allow them to walk undisturbed out of this building. Even as they’re heading down the final step of the massive marble stairs leading up to the gates of Draklor, she is still convinced someone will run up and grab them.

¨

They walk with regular pace back to the Orchid, although Balthier is literally skipping down the street. “Can you believe this, Fran? They know they will never get to the money. Should they assassinate me, the remains will go to whatever is in _my_ will. Deadlock, Fran. Checkmate. It’s over.” He is immensely pleased with his own work.

Fran flicks the claw on her thumb against the ones on her other fingers as she ignores the stares from the locals sent her way. They’re not used to seeing a Viera dressed as lightly as she is, prize Vieras in Archades always covered up to demonstrate how their beauty is reserved for those who can afford to pay. They’re certainly not used to seeing one walking freely down the streets as she is, with just the one companion with her. “So how are you going to resolve this situation with the Strahl? They’re probably going to withhold the funds until you’ve handed her back”, she asks.

“But I intend to hand her back”, he says.

Fran stops dead on her heels. “What?"

“Think about it, Fran. What are they going to do with an oddity like the Strahl? She was a prototype five years ago, there must have been at least three new ones developed since then. She has no worth to them. They’re gonna take her in, strip her of any stones, poke around inside her and realise there’s nothing of worth in there for them. By the time they’re sick of her they’ll have sold her to a mechanics shop somewhere, and that --” he slams his fist into his palm “-- is when we buy her back, take her to a shop and equip her with the finest set of skystones. She’ll be brand new. No more flaking paint and broken sinks.”

Fran wrinkles her nose. The plan seems legit enough, but she has grown way too fond of this airship to want to risk her being picked apart, resold to never be found again, or scrapped. She can’t object, she is Balthier’s ship after all. But the thought of staying grounded for an indefinite period of time bothers her.

¨

As they enter the Orchid, a male voice speaks up from behind the counter. “Balthier? There was a message for you.” The innkeeper hands him a small piece of paper. He unfolds it, holding it up for him and Fran to read the perfect, elegantly rounded handwriting.

 _Thanks for taking me. You’ve been more a friend to me in two days than anyone has ever been in two decades._ Fran wonders what kind of friends Claire has been keeping in her lifetime. _I have decided to leave Archades. My father will be putting my name out for curfew, so I can’t go by transport. Should anyone ask about me, please do me one last favor and tell them my name means nothing to you. - C_

They are left guessing what Claire must have experienced during these three small hours that’s had her set of mind change so completely.

Balthier lowers his voice. “She’s going out the same way we came in. Except she has to get through the deadlands near the city on foot.”

In all her discontent for the girl, Fran does not think she deserves to die. “She’s not gonna last.”

Balthier looks at her with worry, a question lingering on his face.

“Let’s go” Fran sighs, Balthier’s face a look of relief.

¨

They believe her to have snuck out through Old Archades, so they make their way down through the slums following her footsteps. Getting through and out of this area doesn’t take them longer than about half an hour. Leaving Old Archades they don’t exit through the old ruins of Sochen Cave Palace - they believe she’s knowledged enough to stay out of the dangers of that place. Instead they head out one of the eastern gates, to follow a pathway leading through a mountain passage.

The sun is starting to set. Now and then Fran believes she can hear the flapping of naked wings. She does not like the scent of these bare rocks, and prey they are out of this gathering of dead stone soon. The Gods are kind to her. Not long after, stone is declining, replaced by pointed spruce trees and small patches of long grass. This area smells more of forest than the last, but even for the trees, it does not smell of wood. It is too dry and sharply scented for her taste.

Balthier is leading the way, keeping a good pace. Fran is not surprised he suggested doing this deed. She has always known the man to be generous - when he can afford it. Now that his inheritance seems to be reeled in, he can go for his second most preferred reward: being the hero. Which Hume of the age of 22 doesn’t want to come to the aid of a pretty girl, increasing his chance for what Fran suspects to _really_ be his second most preferred reward? 

Yet, she has a feeling they’re not wandering through this wilderland only for upping Balthier’s chances of turning another set of sheets into gun polishing material. She saw the look on his face when he learned Claire had set off on her own - it was guilt. Fran believes he somehow feels responsible for the girl leaving Archades, which she finds puzzling. Obviously Claire reminds Balthier of himself at the time he escaped an eternity of dull ballroom dances, but he made the choice himself, as Claire has done, and he also faced the consequences, as Claire must do - by herself. Saving her life is one thing, taking the blame for her actions is another.

As they reach the edge of the small forest, trees are being replaced by bushes, starting to resemble the open fields they trekked earlier today to get to the train station. The sun has set, the skies now a color of swirling purple and pink. It appears to be getting darker by every minute, and soon there’s just a hint of violet glimmering in the horizon.

Strange animal sounds echo in the distance - and other noises too, sounding less animals-like and more of the type belonging to the darker creatures of the night.

Fran’s hands are relaxed still. She can hear and see just as well in the dark, and somehow, darkness seems to make her sense of smell grow even better. She can hear Balthier occasionally trip behind her. Fran worries. Claire’s shot must be ten times worse than his, and she doesn’t even have a Viera to guide her.

She keeps flicking her ears to pick up any sound of a Hume in distress, but there’s nothing. They should encounter her soon. If they don’t, Fran thinks, there won’t be much left to find when they finally do.

Then, suddenly, she hears something. She freezes, ears pricking - Balthier coming to a halt behind her. Then she sets off as fast as her long legs will allow her.

She knows she will outrun Balthier - it shouldn’t take him long catching up. Darkness and a rocky path will not keep him from a good fight. As she approaches a hilltop, she can hear Claire’s pointless cries of warning. _Get away! You hear me? Get away from me!_ Her voice is clearly loaded with fear - and exhaustment.

Reaching the top of the hill, Fran spots the girl in the valley down below, clearly scared to death, trying to put enough ground between her and a Behemoth-typed beast to fire at it with her crossbow. Tears and sweat glistens on her face, her breath wheezing, voice sobbing in fear and frustration. When she finally gets a shot in, she misses. As Fran rushes down the hillside to get within shooting range, she sees the girl repeat the same process: Running, firing, missing. Fran is surprised she still has bolts left.

As she approaches her field of range, Fran loosens her bow and draws an arrow. She places it between her fingers, the other hand tightening around the trunk, claws tapping lightly against the handle. As she nears the beast she slows her pace, studying its face. Then she pulls back the arrow, all of her senses fully focused on the task.

As Claire runs in Frans direction and the Behemoth turns yet again to lash at its soon exhausted prey, Fran comes to a full halt. The bow stills with her, and for that familiar split second the world stands completely still.

Then, with the tiniest gesture of her right hand she releases the arrow, letting it fly, the string unspending with a content whipping sound as the missile shoots towards its target with deadly intent.

It hits the Behemoth right in the eye. The beast roars, getting up on two feet, front legs clawing at its face, completely forgetting the chase for prey. Fran is casting Blizzard as Balthier appears from behind it, gunshots echoing off the nearby rocks. As the beast expels its very last roar, Fran notices Claire sinking to the ground behind her.

The valley is quiet, save from a few smaller, flying creatures lifting off from the trees nearby.

Balthier tucks his gun back in place, then puts his fist to Frans before they walk over to where Claire is covering her face with her arm, the other firmly planted to the ground, shaking.

Balthier sighs, a well concealed hint of worry in his voice. “I think I’m gonna take back that thing about you being clever. If you’re gonna venture out her on your own, at least learn how to fire that parade weapon of yours.”

He means to tease, but he does not understand how unfitting his words are in this moment. It is clear insensitivity he’s showing towards the girl who only a minute ago was struggling for her life. Fran had already taken the thing down to half health when Balthier appeared at the scene. He hasn’t seen the tears yet.

Claire looks up at him, her eyes bloodshot, face red and swollen from tears, blood on her chin and neck, strains of blond hair clinging to her sweaty forehead. There is hatred in her eyes, contempt Fran is surprised to see even in her.

“Then you should have let me die!” she shrieks, her voice a falsetto. She crawls up to her feet, tucks the crossbow away and tries to sort out her filthy clothes as best as she can with her shaking hands. Then she turns and moves away from them.

“Oh okay, that’s very mature” he calls after her, uncertainty in his voice. He looks at Fran furrowing his brows before he starts walking after the limping girl. “Fine, forget what I said, you’re a class A shot. One more encounter with a Behemoth and you’ll be on Fran’s level.”

That has the girl twirling as good as she can twirl in her weakened condition, her eyes flaming with contempt. “I wish for hell to take you both!” she screams, her voice bouncing off the rocks. “I wish for hell to take you, and your stupid airship! I wish for hell to take Archades, and the people in it - especially the back-whispering awful girls, and the nasty boys only in it for one thing, and my father, and --” her voice is breaking, “-- I wish for hell to take my mother as well!” Her eyes tear up at that.

She looks at him as her lip starts to shake. “But most of all, I wish for hell to take you, Balthier.” Her voice is not quite as loud anymore. “For tricking me into believing I would be better off doing everything by myself. Whatever your reason, I fell for it.” Her last words are faint, escaping her lips with the little breath she has left in her lungs. “I clearly can't do anything right.”

Fran feels sadness. So that is what this is all about. Claire can’t outsmart her father, can’t please her mother, and for all her training, she still can’t fire half as well as Fran. Fran cocks her head and wonders what it must feel like to feel worthless, and why Humes seem so set on making each other feel so small.

Claire is crying quietly as Balthier walks up to her. “Silly girl, neither Fran or I would be having an easy time out here on our own", he says softly. Fran allows him the lie. Claire continues to sob, and Balthier, left with no words for comfort, puts his arms firmly around her instead. She fights him at first, but he insists, so she gives up, her arms curling up awkwardly against his chest.

At that it is as if is she finally finds release. Her cries are painful to hear, yet in a strange way, good.

Several moments pass by. A feeling comes over Fran - she feels out of place, like she’s interrupting a private moment. She moves into Balthier’s line of sight, he looks back - she smiles very discreetly before lurking off between the trees.

She shoots down a few twisted looking birds for them to feed on, ties them up and heads back. As she’s silently slipping down the hillside she sees the two of them sitting close on a fallen tree, Claire’s head resting on Balthier’s shoulder. He occasionally strokes a strand of hair away from her face. She is no longer crying.

As Fran nears them from the trees she makes enough noise for them to hear her approach. When she peeks out from the treeline, Claire has sat up.

“Thank you, Fran. For saving my life.” Claire sounds a lot calmer, and her words seems thoroughly genuine. Fran smiles as much as Fran will ever do. “No mention. I am glad we made it in time.”

¨

The rest of the journey the three of them complete in silence. None of them feel any particular hunger - walking seems to be the prime need for them all - so Fran’s birds are tied to Balthier’s back as they walk through the darkness, daylight forcing itself in over the mountains. This night can not endure, morning will come yet again.

They reach East Sochen by sunrise. They head straight for the Strahl and leave for Rabanastre immediately. Claire wants to go home to her things. Balthier hums content in his chair. Fran doesn’t want this flight to end. She strokes the wall of the Strahl as she looks to the distant horizon. They fly to Rabanastre - then what?

They dock in the aerodrome. Claire walks out of the ship in silence, shakes both their hands yet again and promises to return with the daggers. Balthier looks like he completely forgot about that part of their deal. What does he have to care about selling a set of daggers for scraps now that he soon will have his wealth waiting for him. Still he does not tell her to leave it.

Fran and Balthier lodge at the Sandsea. Balthier rents two rooms, one for them each, stating he will be able to afford it from now on. Fran takes the key and heads straight for her room. She kicks off her boots, removes her helmet and her bodice and tucks herself in under the covers.

¨

She awakes a few hours later. A knock on the door on Balthier’s room reveals he isn’t there. The innkeeper confirms that both rooms have been paid for for the night. Her friend must have headed out for an errand.

Fran is restless. She doesn’t want to sit down for a meal by herself. The only thing she can think of is to head down to the air docks and be with the Strahl. She will most likely have to part with the ship soon, so there’s no reason she should feel strange about wanting to spend a little time with her even if grounded. During these last years she’s grown attached to the old bird.

The aerodrome is busy as expected for a late afternoon like this. Passengers are waiting for their rides to their destinations. Fran, however, goes straight for the private docks.

The Strahl is sitting tight just where they left her. Fran feels warm when she sees her resting quietly, the occasional mechanical knock and squeeze sounding off of her. But there is something else, there are unfamiliar sounds coming from the ship. Fran sharpens her ears.

It is music.

She listens harder.

It’s Archadian music. She knows it must be because she remembers hearing it in the elevator at Draklor and in reception area in the Orchid. Quizzical, she heads for the ship’s main entrance. She plots her code, waits for the door to open - the tones of chippy orchestrated music growing louder as it does.

She enters the ship, not knowing what to expect to find. She works her way into its heart, tipping her ears forward every time she enters a new room to go clear of the door. Finally she reaches the hall. The music is quite loud here, but not loud enough to outsound Balthier’s voice.

“I know, love, but this music is fitting to my mood” he says. She walks towards the cockpit, wondering who is there with him. But as she nears the doorway, she can see there is no one there but Balthier.

“Who are you talking to?” She asks.

“Oh hey there”, he says as he takes his feet off the dashboard and swirls around to face her. “Why, who else but my lovely lady!”

Fran has to smile. “You’re talking to the Strahl?”

“Why not”, he grins wide enough to reveal signs of intoxication. If I am to part with her for some time, I need to make sure she will be keeping noone else but me in her thoughts until we are reunited.” He gets out of the chair, offering her the bottle of rum. “...and as you know, women love to hear me talk.” She takes a sip, feeling the warmth spreading fast in her empty stomach.

“The music?”

“Oh this”, he says. “This is proper Archades asshole music. Ballroom music. Played at every awful upper class gettogether where men and women grope everyone that isn’t their husbands or wives.” He grimaces. “It’s terrible isn’t it.”

Fran doesn’t have the bad memories attached to this music that he does.

He looks at her, and for a moment looks to have the brightest of ideas. “Here. I’ll show you.”

Before she has the time to make a comment on the groping part, he plants a hand firmly around the small of her back. With the other he grabs her hand. His slurred eyes looks up at hers.

“Now this is different” he grins, referring to their unusual difference in height.

She does not know why, but she can’t help but chuckle. It must be the rum.

He leads her around in awkward circles, his frame pressed into hers. She doesn’t know how to react. She’s had men press up against her before, even with no clothes on, but she can’t figure out if this moment they are having is a filling their void, or if it’s the moment right before the void makes its appearance.

Suddenly Fran thinks of Claire, or rather - she thinks about how Claire is not here, and how nice it is to have Balthier’s attention back solely on her. It’s just the two of them again, doing their usual mischief, sharing a bottle, having a few laughs. “Ears”, he says as he attempts spinning her under his arm, “too much ears!”

The music is playing a soft horn instrument solo as they slow down. He plants the hand at the small of her back a little firmer, resulting in pulling her even tighter against his warm body. He leans his head closer to her neck, so close she can feel his warm breath on her prickling skin. She can feel his heartbeat against the bottom of her breast, his palm warm and sweaty against hers, the hand placed on his shoulder suddenly aware of the skin beneath his shirt. She hears Balthier swallow dryly - then her heart skips a beat, blood shooting too quickly around her body. Once, twice, again.

The void is slowly being filled with something hot, sticky, something heavy and grave, something of importance.

Suddenly Fran is imagining herself back at the wood. She is standing in front of a practice target. Although it is far away she can see the red mark clearly if she squinches her eyes. She is holding a large bow, a heavy one with exceptional strength - in the other hand is an arrow, long and elegant, with red, bright feathers attached to the end.

She eyes the target in the distance, hesitates, then lifts the bow. It takes strength, more strength than lifting a bow normally takes. The same goes for pulling back the string. She has to focus all her energy, sweat suddenly running down the small of her back, her palms sticky, arms quivering - then, as expected, it is here: Her moment of silence, of pure clarity. The moment where her heart stands still, and the world disappears.

Two choices. She either releases this arrow, or she retreats.

For her fifty years of living with Humes, Fran has almost become one of them. A Hume, in this moment, does not think. A Hume, in this situation, would free the arrow, would let everything go, eyes on the target in the distance, forgetting all fears of missing or wasting an arrow by blindfiring it into the abyss.

But Fran is Viera. She has exceptional strength. She can hold this bow and this arrow long enough to gather her thoughts. Viera do not make rash decisions, Viera plan ahead. Viera always do the sensible thing, it is how they stay alive for so long. It is their nature.

She sees it then, what is sensible. She remembers it. It appears her mind for a moment has been clouded by giddy music and rum on an empty stomach, but she regains her senses now. She can smell the wood, hear the birds chirping in the trees, the bees buzzing in the bushes. The wood will always remain, even if she for a second forgets it is there due to a blood red target. She must not forget.

And so she closes her eyes, exhales. She lowers the bow.

Balthier instinctively tries to hold her back as she releases herself from his embrace. As she insists again, he lets her go. His face looks flat, like he has just been awoken from walking in his sleep. 

Her ears twitch as she tries to pick the right words. “Thank you for showing me”, is what she finally lands on. “I’ll be going back to the Sandsea. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Balthier’s eyes seems unable to move from a spot on her shoulder. Then his eyes find hers, his expression blank.

She smiles one last smile - as much as Viera can smile. Then she turns and walks out of the cockpit, walks out of the hall, walks out of the smaller hall that follows, walks out of the Strahl.

Even as she’s walking through the large door leading out of the dock she can still hear the faint tones of Archadian music.

 


	4. Grounded

 

No matter how much she tries to sleep, Fran finds herself tossing in her skewed Sandsea bed. Not until the earliest rays of morning sun is peeking through the tattered burlap curtains does she drift into a restless sleep.

She dreams of a huge, peach colored hall, elegantly decorated in marble and silver. She finds herself at a ballroom dance, appearing to be the only person present not a member of the Hume race. Contrary to the last time she was at a fashionable Archades style ball, this time she is not dressed in an expensive purple gown, but draped in a tight, revealing two-pieced outfit that barely covers the essentials. She’s always found her Viera dressing style to be perfectly natural, even for a Viera living outside the wood - plenty other Viera hold on to this style. But oddly enough wearing this garb in this place makes her feel naked.

She keeps looking for Balthier, but it appears he is not here. This worries her. Then suddenly, all the Humes in the room turn to look at her – the ones dancing halting their movement, eyes sent straight her way. One after the other they start pointing at her ears. Some of them are laughing, some of them frowning, as if her presence at this room makes no sense to them. She should not be here, she does not belong with them. As she’s trying her best to tuck her ears flat against her head, she awakes.

She does not knock on Balthier’s door like she tried last night. She assumes he came in late and would prefer sleeping undisturbed. That, or he never came back at all.

She has breakfast in the tavern of the Sandsea, which is not a strange place for a Viera to have a meal in solitude. Rabanastre is known as a multi-cultural place, big enough to take something more than a Viera eating by herself to turn people’s heads. It's one of the things she’s always liked about the Dalmascan capital. Even during the Archadian occupation, most of the time people could go by their own business undisturbed, and now that Queen Ashelia is reigning, there are few Imperial soldiers left in the city to bully loners around like you’d occasionally see under Vayne’s rule. Fran will always prefer Balfonheim as it is smaller and much closer to lush plains and the open sea. But if she was to pick a city to live in, she would have chosen Rabanastre.

When she’s finished the very last remains of her coffee she gathers her things, leaves the stone and wood interior of the Sandsea and heads down to the docks.

To her surprise, entering the hangar in which the Strahl is docked, she yet again hears the familiar tones of the Archadian music Balthier was playing last night.

As she enters the ship she expects to find Balthier passed out in his chair from too much rum, clothes messy and the air tight from his hangover breath, like she has walked in to find him many times before. But as she nears the hall adjacent to the cockpit, she hears laughter.

She recognizes the second voice immediately.

Balthier and Claire are dancing, and they are dancing properly, not tramping around like him and Fran were doing last night. Claire is much more the right height for his match than Fran, and the steps are far from unfamiliar to her.

Balthier leads her steadily, but the few times he fails to direct her and she makes a wrong turn, they stop, both of them snickering.

“Oh hi Fran”, Claire says as she notices Fran’s Viera shape in the doorway. “It seems that while you can take the kids out of Archades --” she begins.

Balthier leads her to the side, interrupting her. “Claire came by with the daggers last night.” He leads her firmly around in a circle. “But I suspect it wasn’t all she came for.” Claire snorts a laugh. He pushes her away from him, then pulls her back briskly. “Considering her mother wants to marry her off to some aspiring jerkoff, I find it no wonder she came running back to Balthier.”

Claire comes to a halt, staring at him as if he’s just revealed how she wet her pants during the first day at school.

“Love, it’s Fran. Anything you tell me is most likely going to reach her ears anyway. If not --” he says, looking at Fran, a smirk on his face, “-- she hasn't heard already.”

Fran knows not if he means it to be a friendly tease on behalf of her hated ears, or something else. The way Claire chortles makes her think it might be the latter.

Whoever the joke is meant for, it at least makes Claire forget her secret being shared so trivially. The two of them go back to their dancing. “No, the Thalassinan move starts with the right foot”, Claire corrects him. “Well this isn’t the Thalassinan move”, Balthier counters, “It’s the… flat footed Moogle move.” Claire laughs.

“I’ll be in the maintenance room patching logs”, Fran says and turns before either of them has the chance to reply. She sometimes fail to remember Balthier is but a kid.

¨

Experience tells Fran Balthier is still working on Claire, seeing as they’re clopping around in the hall instead of Balthier just having walked in with a grin on his face. He very rarely takes his lovers to the Strahl. His usual excuse is the lack of available toxins in his ship, how it's too cluttered to have company over (Fran being the reason of said clutter, of course), or, if he’s with someone who’s not bothered putting up the mask of chastity: the size of his bed. Fran knows better. He chooses to not invite them to his ship in order to keep his distance.

She finds it strange this is taking him so long. He normally doesn’t need more than a few well used hours to convince a girl a night filled with himself to be exactly what she needs to make herself feel better. She wonders if Claire deigned herself to sleep on his bare mattress again, or if they even slept at all.

Even for being at the other end of the ship, Fran can hear Claire’s laughter. The third time the same track starts playing over again she is considering going over there to tell them to keep it down - the music is getting on her nerves. The fourth time it ends she waits for it to start playing for the fifth time, but the Strahl remains completely silent.

It stays quiet for a good while. Then she hears footsteps coming down the hall.

“Bye, Fran” Claire shouts cheerfully as the two of them walk past the door. Balthier stops and peeks in. She looks at him waiting for whatever directions or message he’s about to give her, but all he does is stare. Then the side of his mouth pulls up into a smirk, his expression changing into the silver tongued sky pirate he has made himself a name as - the name that is Balthier, and naught else.

“Bye, Fran” he says, repeating Claire’s words. Then he is gone.

An hour later Fran walks over to the cockpit to start syncing the log system from her co-pilot computer. As she starts tapping on the screen she notices them in the corner of her eye, standing in the opening of the hangar door.

So many times has Fran watched Balthier kiss a lover goodbye, but somehow she can’t seem to pull her eyes away from Claire delicately tonguing her pirate partner.

¨

Fran has heard of the concept of annoying lovers before, however she did not realize it could be this bad.

She’s in her seat in the cockpit working on upgrading the com system through the network cable provided at the docks, trying her best to ignore the pointless dialogue going on in the chair next to hers. They’ve been stationed in Rabanastre for a week now, and a week of this is nearing well beyond enough. Balthier pays for a room for her in the Sandsea. Himself he does not sleep in either the Sandsea or in the Strahl.

Claire is sitting in Balthier’s lap, trying to make sense of what he’s doing on his screen. “What does that mean?” she asks. “What does this one do?” she points at his dashboard. She’s combing her fingers through his hair, her foot bouncing up and down over the handle of his chair. Occasionally she blows into his ear, Balthier slapping her thigh. “I’m trying to work, love” he grins.

Fran knows he is telling her one thing but really means another, as he doesn’t seem to mind being interrupted at all. Everytime she leaves him alone for some time to fiddle with her nails or look out the window, he looks up at her and pinches her somewhere, preferably in the stomach. “Stay away from my fat reserves!”, she cries, hitting his chest the moment before he pulls her down for a kiss.

It’s an infinite loop of frivolity.

Claire breaks the cycle by starting to interrupt his typing, putting in characters in random places in his text. Balthier slaps her hand as she goes for the keys, Claire twisting in his lap to reach another. He then reads out loud the sentences she’s responsible for, both of them giggling to lines Fran struggles to see the humor in. “You’re not much help at all” Balthier says to Claire, his expression a better match to the opposite of this statement. Fran is getting a headache.

Finally Claire manages to delete the last couple of sentences he wrote, leading to Balthier grabbing her firmly. “Excuse us, Fran” he says as he gets out of his chair lifting a squealing Claire. “Someone needs to be taught a lesson.”

 _Yes, you are very much excused_ , Fran thinks.

¨

“I’m sorry for the noise” Balthier smiles sheepishly after Claire has left, following yet another ceremony of goodbyes consisting of pinching, giggling and kissing lasting too long for any sane person to abide - especially for a person with extended hearing. “She’s just… fun. When cheerful, she really is excellent company.”

Fran can’t deny him said company. First of all, the Strahl is his ship, he takes guests on board as he pleases. Balthier keeps Fran provided for the maintenance job she does on the Strahl’s systems. She can ask for no more.

Second, and - Fran still believes - more importantly, Balthier is her friend, her partner; one of few she trusts. Fran does want him to be happy, however he wishes to achieve that happiness. She suspects her refusal hit harder than she'd at first believed. Following that strange night in the Strahl, it seemed like Balthier struggled to be himself with her, especially with just the two of them there. She found him quiet, as if he didn't know how to talk to her - but also as if he wanted to keep a distance between them by interacting less.

Fran is surprised by Balthier’s reaction to say the least. For years they have worked so well together, lived as close as two people can live without sharing a bed, they have seen most of what there is to see of each other. Because they got too close that one time, it is now as if their void has eaten of their once rock solid understanding. It can’t be helped, Fran thinks. Since he’s spent time with Claire, Balthier seems a lot more light at heart, and even if there’s still tension between him and Fran, they at least get along. 

Claire seems lighter at heart too. Balthier tells Fran she’s been ignoring the calls and messages she’s had from Archades, spending her time properly furnituring her room in Rabanastre. She’s even said hello to some of her neighbors - the well dressed ones, mind. “It will take time for her, as it did for me” Balthier says. Claire has a natural skepticism towards new people. She has a hard time believing their friendliness to be nothing but just that. She’s been taught to keep in mind that anyone wanting to befriend a Lhusu might have an agenda.

Balthier is more reluctant when it comes to sharing the details on the engagement Claire’s parents intended for her. All he tells Fran is they believed it was time Claire found a husband, and they had the perfect bachelor (from the proper House, with the fortune to take care of a daughter of House Lhusu) in mind. This time though, Claire had not given in that easy to her parent’s arguments. She had rejected the idea completely, which they did not take well to at all, leading to a very nasty argument. Claire told Balthier she had thought of him, and imagined what he would have said and done in a similar situation, ending in her grabbing a few belongings, sneaking out of the house after spending the rest of her hidden away gil to pay their house help for an hour’s head start.

Obviously the two of them have a lot in common. Fran is willing to tolerate some interference from their end as they clearly seem to enjoy each other’s company. However sometimes she hears noises coming from Balthier’s bunk that makes her hate her ears even more than she already does.

¨

At first their actions are arbitrary and completely ridiculous, all of the time. But then Fran starts noticing a change in their behavior. Claire will let Balthier work in peace, reading a journal or even help him out by looking up things from an instruction manual. Fran is heading for the maintenance room as she sees Claire polishing gun parts while Balthier is putting them back in their proper place. There’s still the occasional pinch, but they are much rarer than a few weeks back. The noise level is definitely more to Fran’s level of comfort.

Sometimes she overhears their conversation, Claire probably not thinking of how well Fran’s ears work, Balthier not bothered by how he knows she might hear. Claire will often talk about people she knew in Archades, or about her life in Rabanastre. Ever so often she will ask Balthier what he thinks. “Do you think she was right to do that?” “Doesn’t that sound strange to you?” “Would you have done the same?” Balthier gives his honest opinion. He seems to enjoy answering her many questions. When he gives his advice, Claire listens in quiet. She doesn’t yet have Fran’s years of experience to point out the obvious flaws in his counsel.

Sometimes Fran can hear he is tired from too much talk, but he does not tell her to be quiet.

As time passes, Fran grows so restless of being stuck in Rabanastre waiting for Balthier to take the Strahl to Archades, she starts taking hunts. She needs to earn a living, she doesn’t have a decent sized inheritance waiting for her to keep her afloat until they reunite with the Strahl. If - she finds herself thinking more and more often - they ever do get her back.

One night, after a drink with fellow hunters at the Sandsea, Fran stops by the Strahl. She’s there to pick up a few arrows - the damn Thalassinan broke two of them today - and her supplies are still stored in her room in the ship. Most of her clothes and personal items are already in the room she rents in the Sandsea, but she refuses to move her weapon supplies there as well. She’s not permanently moving in. One day they will fly again.

Entering the ship, she can tell by their breathing Balthier and Claire are in the cockpit. She gives them a minute, then goes to get what she came for. As she exits her room, Balthier appears in the doorway of the hall, his face flushed, clothes disheveled. He clears his throat.

Fran smirks. “Don’t let me interrupt whatever you were doing”, she says, finding it amusing how spellbound the man is by whatever it is that girl is doing to him.

Days later she spots them in the Sandsea, sitting close together by a table. Balthier is looking at Claire, twirling a piece of her hair around his finger as she’s taking notes from a book from the public library. He looks thoughtful, as if his mind is somewhere very far away.

Fran has no right to not wish this for Balthier. She turned down her chance to have him look at her as he is now looking at Claire, and she did so with good reason. Both she and Balthier are better off for it. She truly believes they are.

¨

They’ve been stationed in Rabanastre for weeks when Fran’s patience come to an end. The next time Balthier enters the cockpit of the Strahl with no Claire attached to his arm, Fran approaches him with her ultimatum. “Balthier. I can not stay grounded any longer.”

His eyes turn stubborn. “You women have a lot of demands”, he grins as he walks by her.

Fran is tired of him, tired of staying aground, tired of having nothing to do but light maintenance work on the ship and simple hunts. “Are you taking the Strahl to Archades soon, and do you still want me to accompany you?” Balthier sighs and puts down the bag he is carrying. “I need to make a living, Balthier, and no more off of mindless hunts. I want to fly.”

“Love”, he says, interrupting himself as he realized he used that word for her - “we’ll be leaving soon. I’m running out of reserves anyway.” He sits down in his chair. “It’s time to cash in.”

“How soon is this soon”, Fran asks. She doesn’t sit down. “Because if it is not the soon that is tomorrow, I am putting word out there’s an available technician stationed in Rabanastre.” She means it not as a threat. Fran has always been straightforward in her way of speaking and Balthier most of all should know.

“Fine, all right, we leave tomorrow”, he says, halfway waving her off. “I’ll tell Claire she'll have to keep her bed warm by herself.”

“Good. I will ask the bridge for a time slot”, she replies, staying not a moment longer. Then she goes to pick one final uninteresting hunt off the board.

¨

The next morning Claire and Balthier show up at the Strahl together.

“Don’t go” Claire moans, clinging to his chest. “I’ll miss you too much.” “That’s really nice, thank you”, Balthier teases. She throws in several threats about forgetting him or finding someone else while he is away, Balthier replying with a smirk he’d like to see this man she believes can fill his shoes. She blushes at that.

It takes him forever to loosen himself from her grip, only to be happily pulled back for another embrace. “But why can’t I come?” Fran overhears Claire saying into his shoulder. Balthier kisses her neck. “So you’ll be hot like Firaga for me when I return”, he says. Claire pulls herself away from him. “Stop that, be serious for a moment.” “I am serious”, Balthier grins mischievously. Claire can’t help herself, she smiles at that, her eyes glistening.

“It’ll be a short job, and there’s not much bedspace. Besides”, he says, hesitating slightly - “I owe it to Fran. We haven’t been flying in forever.” Fran pays attention to the silence that follows. 

Balthier touches Claire’s cheek. “I’ll be back before you’ve finished my dinner”, he tries. When her reaction lingers, he grabs her arm and pulls her towards him, embracing her. Fran cannot hear the words he whispers into her ear, but she sees Claire putting her arms around his neck in response.

Finally Balthier is seated in his chair getting ready for their departure. Fran feels giddy as they go through their take-off routines for the first time in weeks. The Strahl’s engines hum contentedly as Balthier spins up the glossair rings, Fran meanwhile monitoring the systems.

As the ship lifts off from the ground, Fran sighs a relief. They raise slowly towards the sky, sun peeking in through the window as they ascent. When they have risen all the way out of the hangar, Fran checks all systems, contacts the bridge for an affirmative and clears them to go.

An infinite blue sky lies before them as Fran braces her head and shoulders against her seat, purely out of old habit. The first time she sat in the Strahl it was the fastest ship she had ever ridden in. Her head had slammed against her chair as Balthier, in an attempt to impress her, had given his dear lady full throttle ahead. It worked. After that day she was the only ship Fran wanted to muster on.

“Let her fly”, Fran pleads as Balthier lingers. When she turns to him, clearly impatient, he smirks, just like old times. He lets her wait that extra longer, obviously just for the hell of it - then he shoots the ship forward with an acceleration that can only be the mark of an Archadian fighter.

¨

They are well on their way to Archades when Balthier drops the bomb.

The flight has been routine so far. Fran is handling the navigational system, checking for any possible obstacles or public messages. She leans back and sighs content.

“So how long do you think you have to give it before we’ll have her back?” She props one knee up to lean against the wall. She strokes the ship lovingly while admiring the clear skies. It truly is a magnificent day to fly.

When Balthier doesn’t answer, she turns towards him. He keeps staring straight ahead. She is sure he heard her.

“Balthier?”

No reply.

“Balthier”, she says again, but it is like talking to a wall.

“Captain”, she says then. That has his attention. He rubs his fingers against his thumb for such a long time she is about to tell him to quit it.

“I might not be buying her back.”

Fran thinks her ears must have failed her.

“Explain this to me.”

Balthier starts tapping on his screen. “Maybe we should go do something else, Fran. We’ve been at this for five years now, and it’s a big world out there.” He’s stops the tapping. “Maybe we ought to let this go.”

 _No_ , Fran thinks. The Strahl has been her entire life for several years, and she had planned to keep it so for a few more. She knew their pirate life would at some point end, but she expected Balthier to at least allow her the time to save up enough to let her buy the Strahl from him. As her gil situation is now, she doesn’t have enough to cover more than a wing, and he knows this. A good couple of well engineered trips over to entrepreneur-land and she would have had another wing, the engine and most of the systems. A few more and she would have been able to pay him a decent price.

Fran shakes her head. “So let’s just say you are about to give up the Strahl.” She enhances the giving up part, as this is what he is doing after all. He is giving up on his once beloved freedom. “We have been grounded in Rabanastre for _weeks_ , Balthier. Why did you wait to tell me until the very moment you are about to hand her over to Archades?”

When he doesn’t answer, she’s about to lose her patience. “This is extremely selfish of you, _Captain_. In this matter, you have been thinking of no one but yourself, completely failing to think of your crew.” It appears her patience is gone after all. “I thought I was sailing with an honorable man.”

That has him leaping in his chair. “Selfish.” His gaze is vile. “Thinking only of myself.”

Fran does not lower her eyes. She stares back with the same stubbornness.

“You expect me to keep this ship purely for _your_ benefit, do you not!” He is closer to shouting than talking. “While you get to fly around and collect, I’m the one stuck with all the expenses. Freeriding, that’s what you’ve been doing”, he scoffs.

“Balthier, she is your ship! Of course you will cover the expenses!”

“Well you certainly make up a good percentage of those expenses.”

“I am a veteran mechanic, Balthier, I do not come cheap. You know I will only ask my worth, no more, and certainly no less.” She finds her blood is boiling. “I am not a child, and I will not be treated as one!”

She expects him to end this ridiculousness. But Balthier sits silent, his whole body stiff as a stick, his expression hard as stone.

“You are relieved of your services” he orders.

Fran’s voice tighten. She cannot believe it has come to this.

“Are you pulling rank on me?”

Balthier looks at her, eyes narrow. His words are articulate and full of contempt. “I am.”

Fran glares back at him. If this is how he wants it, he will have it so. Neither does she want to object. She is done with him.

She stands up abruptly, shoots him once last glance of despise before she turns and walks away.

She spends the rest of the flight in her room preparing her things for her departure. As the Strahl starts her descend, Fran puts her hand to the wall and closes her eyes.

“Goodbye, old bird” she mutters.

¨

They speak no more to each other. When the Strahl is safely docked at Archades, Fran stands silent next to her ex-Captain as he hands the starting cards over to the representatives of the City. “A fine choice, Mr. Bunansa” one of them says. “I believe you now have business at Draklor.”

Balthier shakes their hands. “It was a pleasure, gentlemen.” Before he has finished with his courtesies, Fran takes her bags and walks off, a large, breathtaking bow attached to her shoulder. Her legs are tall in her revealing outfit, the sound of her heels against the floor resonating off the walls. Her back is straight even for the weight she is carrying. She can tell by the silence the men in the room are watching her, Balthier included, and she does not care. They can stare all they like; stare, and savour what they won’t be seeing again.

¨

She gets on the first sky ferry to Balfonheim. She rents a room at the Whitecap, then gets on a ferry to Rabanastre to pick up the last of her belongings.

When she reaches Rabanastre the sun is setting. She books a flight back to Balfonheim immediately. She then heads for the Sandsea.

She is exiting the aerodrome as she sees him. He is sitting on the stairs of one of the buildings opposite the aerodrome. He must have arrived in Rabanastre much earlier than her, but there he is, barely moving, staring straight ahead, his elbows resting on his knees. Even for sitting in the shadow of the last evening sun he looks pale, Fran thinks, like he’s ill from something he ate.

She sighs. Her anger has stilled from a day of journey. She does not want to stay mad at him forever. She walks over to him, not knowing if she’ll be scolded or welcomed.

But Balthier barely looks at her as she approaches him. She knows him well enough to know this isn’t a yes, but it isn’t a no either, so she sits down next to him.

“I’m sorry, Balthier”, she begins. “It was wrong of me to go at you like that. I knew we wouldn’t be flying forever, and the Strahl is - was - your ship. You do whatever you please with her, and that I respect.” Her smile is friendly. “I am glad to have shared these five years with you.”

Balthier sits still, his breath overly shallow, his expression stiff.

“Claire's pregnant.”

A swallow glides softly over the sky in front of them, chirping lightly.

Fran doesn’t know what to say. She doesn’t know the proper reaction to news like this, let alone does she know her own reaction. Her head suddenly feels like it’s been filled with cotton.

She turns to look at him. He looks back.

For a long moment they sit like this, Balthier’s eyes confused - and frightened.

“This is not how it was going to be, Fran”, he says finally, his voice so low it is almost a whisper. “It is not.” He looks down at his shoes, as if he for some reason feels shame.

Fran sighs, looking up at the blue skies, a few more swallows gliding by. “The babes comes first, Balthier. It is so with every race, and so it must be.” She smiles, addressing what she believes to be his biggest fear. “You can do this. You and Claire, together. You shouldn’t be afraid.” She tries to capture his eyes with hers. “It’s not going to be the same as it was. For either of you.”

Balthier understands. He smiles a tender thank you.

“I’m sorry for leaving you grounded”, he says, Fran shaking her head. He sighs. "I was unfair to you, Fran. I know you hate being tied up, not being able to breathe, and I did nothing to aid it... quite the opposite, rather." There is remorse in his voice. "And with intent."

Fran doesn't reply. She instead places her hand on his, squeezing it gently. He exhales.

“Even if I wanted to buy back the Strahl, it appears I might no longer be able to afford it. I need to buy a house”, he laughs nervously, a sense of relief in his voice. He shakes his head. “My Gods, what is going to become of this!?”

“You take one day at the time”, Fran says, “It is like when we fled from our destined fates. Only…” she begins. “...the other way around”, he finishes.

They share no more words. It is the beginning of the end for them, but for Balthier it is the beginning of something else. He will have the Hume life Fran has always wished him to have. As for herself, she knows not what she will do next.

There is but a slight comfort in this, Fran thinks, and that is she was right. She knew Balthier would demand ground life sooner or later. She just didn’t expect it to be this much sooner.

She watches the swallows glide across the sky and wishes she was up there flying with them.

¨

Fran gets in touch with her contacts at Balfonheim to look for a permanent place for her to rent. If she is to settle somewhere, it will have to be Balfonheim - it’s easier to find a new ship to fly with from there. Balthier is staying in Rabanastre for now, looking for an estate a bit further from the city limits. Claire wants to stay in Dalmasca - “neutral ground” as she calls it. They want to raise their child outside the city. Both of them has had enough of that kind of life.

Claire’s parents has learned about the child. Any excitement they might have felt is completely hushed from their end. Balthier places a decent amount of stocks in Claire’s family’s companies, enough for them to write down his name in the Archadian city protocol as the rightful husband of their daughter - as Ffamran Mied of House Bunansa.

It is, however, not enough to make them want to attend their daughter’s wedding. It is no ceremony fit for parents of the bride, they tell Claire when she explains briefly about their plans. Claire believes with the right amount of sweet talk, her family would have offered them a proper Archadian wedding, but as Claire says herself, Balthier and her would rather hike to Jahara and back than to set a foot in Archades City. They make arranges for holding the ceremony in one of the temples near the Sandsea, with the mandatory breakfast and feast held in the aforementioned inn.

Claire always believed she would be wed, but she did not picture it as being so sick she can barely stand, in the presence of Bangaa, Seeq, pierced Hume pirates and Viera.

Fran is one of many present at the wedding who sees how bad of a condition Claire is in, standing slightly crouched in her neat, peach colored wedding dress. The girl is barely paying attention to the priest’s words, Balthier squeezing her hand softly. Fran can’t remember Mjrn’s mother being this ill when she was carrying Fran’s little sister. It’s an obvious flaw in the Hume gene, she thinks.

Balthier says she’s been sick almost every day since she found out she is with child, and so far, according to her, preparing for motherhood has been nothing but a parade of misery. She lies flat on her back all day, until night time comes, finally allowing her to crawl out of their bed for a few hours. She eats and drinks a small amount, then sits on the balcony for some fresh air alongside a frowning Balthier, until it’s back to bed. For someone who’s already struggling to find her worth, this way to pass the days is not helping. Claire wants the child to be born already, but at the same time this is the event she is dreading the most. Neither Balthier nor her has any idea how life is going to be like with a screaming baby in her arms. Thankfully, Claire says, she has Balthier, and to that statement Balthier smiles bravely.

When the ceremony is over the guests are served ale and salty meat with root vegetables. Fran is being offered a glass of wine from two different bachelors, one Hume and one Bangaa, when she observes Claire sitting on a bench outside on the backside of the inn, clearly drained for all energy. At least she lasted through a toast and one applauded kiss.

Fran picks up a glass of sugared fruit juice and walks over to her. Claire takes the drink offered. “Thanks” she says, very carefully sipping the cool drink.

“Some wedding day huh”, Claire snorts after some time. “Never in my life did I imagine this, Fran. Never in my life did I imagine I would be wed in a tavern in Rabanastre in the presence of all kinds of... people I’ve hardly met, not caring if I was dressed in a sack, married to a sky pirate barely recognized as an heir to a cancelled Archadian house.” She sighs. “And never did I imagine I would be sitting outside of my wedding feast, longing for the moment I get to lay down somewhere cool and quiet.”

Fran smiles. Accepting life’s odd turns is part of growing up. Maybe the child has done Claire the favour of speeding up this process for her.

“I don’t feel sorry”, Claire says then, staring down into her drink, her voice slightly tensed. “I mean, about Balthier, and you, and the Strahl. I’m not sorry. Things like these just happen.”

On some things, Fran thinks, Claire is still a child. Facing responsibility is an art learned late in life.

Fran tilts her head. “There was never any blame. I have spent many years learning to adjust, and I will spend many more doing the same. Life is a river that always bends. Balthier seems content, and that is all that matters to me”, she says honestly.

Claire seems relieved by Fran’s words at first. Then it looks like she’s chewing on the observation that Fran only said Balthier’s name, and not hers.

¨

Fran rents a small room in Balfonheim. It has one window, and shares a bathroom and cooking corner down the hall. The latter isn’t widely used - most people renting at Balfonheim usually only eat two meals a day - a cup of coffee and a slice of bread before taking off for the day, then a large meal shared with their companions in one of the inns at the end of the day.

It doesn’t take her long to adjust to staying grounded. She has accepted the change and is doing what she’s always done the times in her life when she’s had to change course: Keeping herself busy with work, and figuring out who she can trust and not. She is yet again reminded how the world is full of people she has yet to meet, how it is filled with interesting stories she has never heard. She relives her love for the richness of Ivalice that overwhelmed her so the first time she stepped out of the woods.

She does miss the Strahl, and she does miss Balthier. Even for their time together being a relatively short amount of her life span, the two of them left an impression unlike any other. She doesn’t want to forget them, but it is not with fondness she sits down after a long day, her mind drifting back to the times they’ve shared.

It has now been months. She has not heard from Balthier since they parted the night of his wedding.

It was a strange goodbye. Balthier had stared at her for the longest time - then he’d hugged her. Fran had found the whole thing strange, but still consoling, in a way - it was a different embrace than the one they’d shared weeks before during Balthier’s final attempt at romancing her. She’d placed her arms carefully around his neck, feeling his chest expand as he sighed heavily. “My friend”, she’d said, “you’ll be alright. Do not worry. Take good care of the little one.” These were the last word passed between them.

She now pays for a living by taking some of the more difficult hunts alongside other experienced hunters. Learning to breath with them as she did with Balthier takes time, but they do well enough to pick up their bounty at the end of the day.

She is still looking for a ship.

¨

After a few more months she receives a letter from Balthier. Claire has given birth to a son. They would very much like Fran to visit them in their new home - if she will accept the invitation.

Fran asks around and learns that visiting a newborn is, as within other races, something highly expected within most Hume cultures. She hasn’t saved up enough to buy her own airship yet, but a fellow hunter lends her one of his. It’s a small, one man model used mostly to smuggle Bacchus’s Wine. Her alternative route, by ferry and foot, will take her longer than she is comfortable staying away from her routine, so she accepts the offer.

Reaching the Bunansa/Lhusu estate doesn’t take her more than a couple of hours. She is landing the ship in a small, open field as she spots Balthier approaching them from between the trees. His clothes are different, a lot less flashy and stiff. They are instead earth colored and more comfortable looking. His trousers are not as tight as they used to be, which is perhaps for the better. There’s less piercings, the biggest ones he used to wear removed from his ears. His hair is slightly longer and looks to be in need of a haircut. He has a couple of weeks of stubble - but he is the same Balthier, eyes shining, still wearing a shirt with cuffs.

As she descends from the small set of stairs leading out of her borrowed bird, he cocks one eyebrow and smirks. “Fran.”

Her ears flick towards him. “Balthier.” Their handshake is firm and long. “How goes the grounding?”

“I could be asking you the same thing”, he says, gesturing for her to follow him.

Their house is about seven decades old, built solidly with a strong type of wood. It is sitting between patches of trees, sheltered in rocks covering it from the worst storms. In the back is a fenced garden with a few goats. “For the kid, when he grows older” Balthier chuckles.

As they walk up to the house, Balthier gives Fran a short summary of the last few months. Claire took her good time getting the sprout out of her, but when she finally did, they found peace. The kid is life-strong and certainly will-strong, not harbouring any reluctance to tell them when he needs something.

Claire confirms this story, albeit in a much longer version. She’s sitting in a comfortable chair in their living room with the babe in her arms when Fran enters, a sense of peace lingering in the room. Fran greets her and puts down the gift she has brought for the boy’s arrival. “What is his name?” she asks.

“Snow”, Claire smiles.

"She plans on calling the next one 'Windy, but sunny'”, Balthier smirks. Claire barely offers her husband a glare for the joke on her behalf. She is too busy admiring her treasure.

“He’s the boss around here”, she smiles looking down at the sleeping infant with love. “We pretty much have to adjust to whatever it is he wants.” Judging by how she looks at her son, she has no objections in regards to this matter.

Snow is sleeping quietly, his breath shallow and fast, like he’s in a hurry to grow even when asleep. Now and then one of his feet twitches, or he throws one tiny arm up to his face. For such a small thing he seems unexpectedly determined, Fran thinks, like he knows something they don’t - as if he’s tapped into the pool of answers to all of life’s mysteries, but refuses to share them, unaware of how he will have forgotten all of this wisdom by the time he will be able to speak.

The three of them have tea and talk. Usually the conversation ends up going back to be about whatever Snow is doing, or whatever Snow has been doing. Fran doesn’t mind. She looks at Claire. She seems to have changed, not just physically. Her expression is more open than it used to be, like she’s finally starting to learn to trust. Claire looks back at Fran and pauses for a second.

“Would you like to hold him?”

The only baby Fran has ever held is her little sister Mjrn, and that was so long ago she barely recalls what it was like. She doesn’t want to reject Claire’s proposal. She knows it is more than a chance to hold her son the girl is offering.

Claire places the infant slowly in Fran’s arms. He feels fragile, yet his body is remarkably strong for such a small creature. She can definitely see he is Balthier’s son, even for the clear traces of Claire’s features. Snow seems content in her arms, sleeping still. “He is very warm”, Fran says. Balthier cocks his head as he studies her as she’s holding the child, his face expressionless.

She enjoys the time the baby is in her arms. Then she notices how Claire’s lap seem empty without him. As Fran hands him back to his mother, Claire beams.

Balthier and her are sitting on the front porch together, Fran being about to leave. Balthier looks at her tenderly. “I’m glad to see you again, Fran. I am glad to see you are doing well - and that you haven’t changed. In all this madness --” he laughs, pointing to the door as they hear Snow screaming with discontentment, “-- it’s good to see some things stay the same.”

On her way back to Balfonheim, Fran feels like looping the ship or doing some other kind of senseless move only a young, reckless pirate would do, like flying the ship so close to the sea it shoots foam.

But Fran stays on the plotted course.

¨

She is back in the Whitecap when the innkeeper comes over to her and shares a story about a Seeq being murdered a good while ago. He used to live outside town, supporting himself by doing the odd job, among them photographing people, which he enjoyed above everything else.

In his residence they had found not only the deceased Seeq, but several sealed envelopes with finished photographs that were lacking a specific address. Some of them they’d managed to deliver to their rightful owners, but the problem was that the Seeq wasn’t a very good speller. The envelopes they were unable to decipher had ended up at the Whitecap.

“It took me some time to figure this one out”, he says, handing Fran an envelope. It is marked “Vera + jong man Stural”. The Seeq clearly meant for this to mean something closer to _Viera and young man, the Strahl_. “I have been looking for this Vera and this Stural for a long time”, the Innkeeper chuckles.

Fran opens the envelope carefully and pulls out its content. She notices the backside of the photograph having the same cluttered markings on it as on the envelope itself, save a letter here and there. She turns the photograph over.

The Seeq did well with the post production. He’s made it a bit more yellow and red, as if to make it look a lot older than the few months since it was taken outside the very inn she stands at present. They both look ale-slurred, Fran’s claws sunk firmly into Balthier’s hand. Fran’s expression is relaxed, content, Balthier’s as cheeky as ever, scratching his nose with mischief as he’s going for her breast.

The front door of the Whitecap suddenly blows open. “That damn door again”, the Innkeeper exclaims. “Guess this means summer is officially over.” Fran finds herself shivering from the chilled autumn wind.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credits time. I’m influenced by several FranxBalthier fics online, but the one that’s left the biggest impression is ‘[Ownership](http://archiveofourown.org/works/103530)’ by pendency. Things like Fran making a living and being hired by Balthier, and the idea of picking hunts off boards I have to credit to this author. Also the way Fran speaks I see is heavily influenced by how Fran speaks in said fic. “Balthier. What is it you think I'll do?” “Balthier. I can not stay grounded any longer.” Maybe not that much noteworthy, but I choose to call it a homage.
> 
> The picture Fran receives is of course based off [this artwork of them](http://i1134.photobucket.com/albums/m601/arfurido/ff/Fran_and_Balthier_artwork_zps45f9d52a.jpg) shown in the end credits of the game.


	5. When boy met Viera

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter covers Fran and Balthier's backstory and can be read as a separate fic. (Spoilers at the end.)

 

When Fran first met Balthier, he was not the first pirate she would fly with.

At the time she left the wood, Magicite mining was flourishing, quickly becoming a common way for the average worker to earn for his bread. Scientists, in Archades in particular, had recently figured out how to work Magicite crystal into sky stones, placing them in airships to make them fly. While there were no such thing as sky ferries to speak of yet, there were many private airships, and, of course, military vessels crossing the skies, their technology developing rapidly.

The first time Fran ever saw an airship, she was still living with the wood. She was training to become a wood-warder, a protector and hunter of the Viera people.

One day she and a fellow Viera, Kmil, who was also to become a wood-warder, were out in the Golmore Jungle to hunt. They were swiftly making their way under the huge jungle trees as they suddenly picked up on a strange noise, one unlike anything they’d ever heard before. It was coming from above - some sort of dark, humming sound, completely unnatural to any voice of the wood.

“Frjn”, Kmil whispered, “I cannot hear the green word. We have ventured too far --” - she turned to Fran, “-- again!” She froze and clenched her fists. “We’d better head back and report this to --”

Fran held her hand out as a signal to wait, her then fully white ears flicking rapidly to pick up the sound. “Hold on Kmil - is it not better if we return with something of precision to report?”

Kmil stood still. As Fran moved further inn between the trees, Kmil called her, anxious. “Frjn!”

Fran sought an opening in the trees where she would see the clear sky above - and as she stood there dead still, long ears fixed forward, the sound increased until a large, dark shadow peered out from between the branches above her. She leaped back, heart hammering, hiding in the cover of the huge leaves, glaring at this alien-like... _thing_ gliding slowly across the sky.

Never before in her life had she seen a monster similar to this, and as her pulse was racing, she couldn’t help thinking how she did not only feel fear, but exhilaration; a feeling of needing to know more about this unnatural being gliding so strangely above her.

In this moment, she felt lifted from the soil, like she was suddenly more than a creature of the wood and a listener of the green word. She felt as if she had a mind and will of her own that would allow her to lift towards the skies if she wished it.

“What was it?” Kmil gasped as Fran returned to her. “I don’t know”, Fran replied, pulse still throbbing. “Let us return to the wood and see if she might know.”

But the wood had no answer to provide them, and the Viera of Eruyt had no reward for Fran in return for her news. All she was paid was a strict lecture on how any word the wood did not already know, Viera had no use for.

Frjn saw several airships following this incident, had several encounters with people from the outside world crossing the wood, and was scolded several times before the wedge between her and Jote, her older sister in rules, was too wide to be mended. “The viera may begin as part of the Wood, but the Wood is not the only end that we may choose”, Fjrn had said the night before leaving, her mind stubbornly set on parting with the wood. Jote refused to speak to her after uttering her final words for her - “if you wish to leave, so leave. Viera who abandon the wood are Viera no longer, and so Viera you will be no more. Thus you are no longer my sister.” Her eyes had a sheen of poison as she added - “Nor Mjrns.”

Parting with Mjrn was the hardest thing Fran had ever done, but she could stay not a day longer. The following day she found herself venturing through the Golmore Jungle carrying her belongings, looking for a less traveled passage to the Ozmone Plain. Viera has been leaving the wood for as long as Viera had lived secluded, but they were not yet as common as they are today. Even for wanting to walk the same path as other travellers, Fran intended on keeping a low profile.

It was with the Garif she first learned enough of the Hume tongue to take the name of Fran, a name rooted in the Hume word for freedom.

She stayed with the Garif for a good while, learning enough of lands and lore make it in this world. It was from them she first learned to use close-ranged weapons, such as swords, daggers and maces, her strength and magic growing as she mastered them, spending seasons upon seasons on the plains hunting and learning from the Garif.

She then ventured into Hume land, surviving by hunting and teaching to others what she could, after a while taking hunts off boards. At this time, Balfonheim was but a small fishing port. It was not until after the destruction of Nabudis, when Reddas started bribing the Archadian Empire to look through the fingers, the now infamous pirate port started prospering. The existing Clan Buckaboo of Balfonheim did not form until Balfonheim was known as a neutral port. The Clan Centurio in Rabanastre, formed by the Moogle Montblanc, the Nu Mou Ma'kenroh, and Krjn, another Viera leaving before Fran, had not yet been established.

The biggest Clan at this time was at Phon Coast, their camp bordering on the old kingdom of Archades and the now vanquished kingdom of Nabradia. Phon was the place to be and the place to earn; the vast steppes of Phon, Tchita and Cerobi all close at range. Even Feywood, being a busy land road at the time, had its occasional monster needing to be handled. But the biggest chunk of gil still came from hunting the plains of Archades, the area needing to be cleared of monsters, the petitioners being the technological, but practically inexperienced inhabitants of Archades.

Fran knew she wanted to go North, to Phon. She had heard it to be a beautiful place, white beaches and sea as far as the eye could see, with airships passing above and people of all races gathering from all over Ivalice to meet under the sun. Many spent a holiday there, a good lot came to take hunts, others were just passing by, stopping to share their stories by the fire.

Even for her curiosity, Fran had yet to ride in an airship. She had a hope that such a possibility would be presented to her at Phon.

As she spent time there, it eventually did. One evening, as the hunters arranged a large bonfire with a spitted Behemoth served at a long table with enough Bhujerban Madhu to go around several rounds and then some, a pirate approached her. He was a Hume in his thirties, with long, shaggy dark hair and a bare, hairy chest, adorned with tattoos and an attitude to go.

“So”, he said and sat down next to her - inappropriately close, but Fran was sipping Madhu and did not seem to care - “I hear the lady likes airships?”

Not long after, following a rather dumb exchange of words, they had walked through the village in the warm, dark night, sand tickling her toes, grasshoppers chirping from their hiding in the dry, stubborn patches of grass.

Fran climbed into his discretely sized two-man freighter. The ship’s cockpit was so small the co-pilot seat was crammed in behind the pilot chair, not allowing her to see much through the small, dirty cockpit window. This was was no fighter ship, for sure, but she was the first airship Fran ever set foot in. And bless the goddess, she could fly. As Fran clung to the stained, scarred chair, her heart pounding like it never had before, the pirate took them off the ground and shot for the horizon. As they raised to acceptable height, he slowed the ship, then turned around. “Your seat offer poor access. If you share my seat with me, you’ll get a much better view”, he grinned.

At that he was right. With Fran in his lap, her long legs flung over the arm of his chair, he took them for a short spin, showing her the amazing view of the sea lit up by moon and stars. She felt as if she was Stoned, unable to move, sucking in the wonders of gliding high above where any bird would ever go, or any tree of the wood could ever grow.

He let the ship hover, letting Fran behold the view of stars blinking friendly against a dark curtain before her. As she watched their play, completely stunned, the pirate started playing softly with her hair, brushing it away from her neck. “Do you like it?” he murmured, carefully placing a soft kiss on her bare shoulder. “It is beautiful”, Fran spoke softly. The pirate hummed. “Not as beautiful as you, darling. I swear, there is nothing more pleasing to the eye than a Viera. Whoever made you must have had all of the Goddesses’ blessing with him that day.”

Fran might be new to the Hume world, but she was not new to life. She was pretty sure this pirate had taken plenty other girls in his ship to watch the stars. She was now sure of his intentions, knowing if he did not get what he sought, chances were likely to be small he would take her flying again - he did not strike her as a patient man.

She had learned that life outside the wood was a matter of give and take. As long as the wood deemed you fit, she lulled you in her arms and provided all you might need. Outside it, you had to make your own fortune, but in exchange, the possibilities were endless.

Fran wanted to fly. She wanted to learn how to control airships, and how to work mechanics. It was an urge she had felt ever since that first sight of these floating vessels, which had made her feel so alive. She was also curious about Humes. She found them to be strangely appealing, easy going and adventurous. She did not see this as trading a service for another. She saw it as offering something in return - while gaining experience from two new worlds.

She arranged herself so she faced the pirate. As he leaned in to kiss her, she put two fingers over his lips.

“Will you take me again?” she asked.

“...of course”, he said sheepishly, leaning in, but Fran stopped him yet again.

“Will you show me its mechanics?”

The pirate frowned, but was blinded, unable to resist her Vieran beauty. “I will.”

At that she’d kissed him, savouring the strange taste of his Hume tongue. It was the first time she had been with a Hume, and although she believed her inexperience must have made the event much less appealing to him, he loved having her on his ship so much he let her muster for the entire summer. It was from him Fran learned the basics of Magicite lore - and of airships.

It did not take her long to be of help rather than a burden, but even for having passed that point, there were still night she, purely out of curiosity, climbed into his captain’s chair to watch his eyes be veiled again by her Vieran beauty.

When summer ended, Fran had learned enough to believe she could look for work in mechanics. She knew the best way to learn would be to get to the Sky City of Bhujerba to get an apprenticeship with one of the Moogle shops up there. She believed it would require some amount of work. Bhujerba was a very prosperous city at the time, the Lhusu Mines being rich with Magicite ore. To work and live in Bhujerba was not for everyone, she knew she would have to prove herself to get in. She would either need a reference from someone other than a half shady sky pirate, or get together enough gil to buy scraps to build something she could show possible employers, either a smaller vessel or a bike.

Fran had neither gil nor references, but she did have a plan. Bhujerba hosted a clan, Clan Diatroma, who helped keep the mines of Bhujerba clean. She believed her reputation as a hunter would be enough to at least let her into the city.

Her darling pirate had not agreed on her leaving. He’d reluctantly agreed to fly her to the docks of Bhujerba, where he’d held her arm and put up a pout. “What will I do without my good luck charm?” he whined. “Is there no way I can convince you to stay with me?”

Fran knew he would have a hard time finding a woman as quiet and hardworking as her. She could see why he would miss her. But she had learned all there was to learn from him, she needed to move on. One last kiss, broken off before he could apply his tongue to her, then she was free from his embrace. “I’ll miss you”, he called after her. “Write me!”

¨

Fran was let into Bhujerba, and she was also let into Diatroma. Finding her way into mechanics, however, turned out to be a more aggravating task to accomplish. The Moogles already had the help needed, and if that wasn’t the biggest rock in the doorway, they took one long look up towards her ears and found her insignificant before they even heard her speak. Viera were known for being good hunters and spotless with a bow, but until this day they had never heard of a Viera mechanic.

“If it was so, that this is what you want to do”, they said, having a hard time believing her wish to be sincere, “why would you want to break your claws and filthy your beautiful hair with machine oil? Not to mention, won’t the mist from the Magicite make you feel ill?”

Fran knew Viera were no more suspect to the bi-effects of sky stones than Moogles were, but she found herself speaking to deaf, furry ears. Had she any references, she would have stood a small chance, but as it were now, she had been written off the minute her heels clacked into their hangar.

And so it was back to the ground to look for other places of apprenticeship. Fran did not want to live off boards forever. Hunting tough marks was somewhat satisfying, and did pay for a bed, but it did not still her appetite.

¨

She spent more than a couple of decades working on her skills. She ventured further North into Archades, seeking towns known for living off technology. It was there she was first acquainted with the Archadian people’s growing fascination for Viera.

After some time she was taken in at one of the more shady Moogle shops, slowly starting to build a list of references and a name. Already a master of weapons, she was now nearing a mechanic of decent level as well, though she knew she was still a good handful of years of accomplishment with engines away for these to match her skill with a bow.

Coincidences brought her back to Bhujerba. Passing through Phon, the board shared by the hunters announced a well paid mark up in the Lhusu Mines. A crew in Diatroma was in need of an experienced, ranged fighter, preferably skilled with bows and with a good sense of hearing, as the beast turned out to be almost impossible to find, having minions extremely sensitive to sound.

And so she found herself yet again breathing the wonderful, fresh air of Dorstonis.

Following a most successful hunt, she was taken into Diatroma. She spent time working on hunts and doing repair work at one of the Moogle shops set up in Bhujerba, as they finally agreed to give her work. Walking into the shop, she was greeted with the same frown sent her way so many years ago. This time though, she refused to take no for an answer. Back straight, she named her most important references and work, the Moogles responding by letting her in on one of the smaller jobs: mending the engine of a broken shuttle craft. It was enough to convince stubborn Moogles to give her some work now and then, and it was enough to keep expanding her skills.

Had she given this full throttle, she might have been working full time at the various shops, but Diatroma was an interesting bunch of hunters. She enjoyed working with them, and also she found the damp caves of Bhujerba to be a good place to work. Often they would pass through huge openings, under their feet merely a string of stone and railway, their eyes looking out at miles and miles of nothing but clouds and blue skies. For a cave, it was an incredibly liberating place.

¨

Following another successful hunt, Fran was one day heading for the clan’s favourite scene for vice and unvirtue. The _Cloudborne_ was crowded this evening, full of all sorts of people, a thick smoke revealing leaves being enjoyed, adding a dimension to the tavern’s name.

On her way to the board, a clan member stopped her and propped a glass of Mahdu in her hand. “To Diatroma!” he yelled, nearby members cheering. Fran lifted her glass, taking a sip before continuing towards the board.

Another Diatroma member, a Bangaa named Munik, was already studying the bills. “Hey there, Transmitter”, he greeted her, using the lovable nickname given her due to her physical appearance, her love for mechanics - and her knack for never being the first person to talk their heads off.

“A new ship arrived this morning”, he said, slurping his Mahdu, well aware Fran would be the first of the clan’s members to be interested in news of this kind. “Should be fairly uncomplicated work for you. The ship has but one passenger: Its pilot, an upper class Archadian kid, though he desperately tries to disguise himself as anything but so. He almost had us fooled, his generic Archadian accent believable enough; however his demeanor gave him away. His story of taking his father’s ship to Bhujerba for repairs would have sufficed had he not responded so arrogantly when the Moogles tried negotiating on the price.” He snorted. “Probably yet another rich kid taking off with one of daddy’s airships to find adventure in his dull life of feasts, women and the studying of pointless books.”

Fran listened with interest. She had seen enough of Archadia to hold very few doubts considering the ethics of relieving its inhabitants of a nickel or two, which an airship was to a rich man. The world was imbalanced, those with access to resources never giving them up easy, even for having more than they could ever need. Along with the Hume trait of never thinking properly through things before jumping, they also held the ability to avoid drawing a line of ‘enough’.

They all shared an interest in this. With a ship, Fran could help out with transportation, including easy access to hunting and rare games. Not to mention, from her point of view: She would be flying.

Munik continued. “His ship is a curious thing too, some oddity of a fighter. I think you’ll like it.” He leaned in towards her. “I would think you already know how Viera are the new gems of the rich of Archades. This should be easy for you. Finding us a pilot should be even easier with a ship like this one. And when we do”, he grinned pleased, “you can take the entire clan of Diatroma treasure hunting.”

Fran turned her back to the board, savouring her Mahdu along with his words, scouting slowly through the clouded, noisy room. “Left corner”, Munik mumbled. “You can’t miss him.”

He was right. Even for the cheap jewellery and the worn shirt, trying to hide his thousand gil haircut with some kind of filthy scarf, there was no way not to spot the boy, being completely misplaced in this establishment. His skin was too pale, his movements too refined, even down to how he steadily held his drink. Save for entering the Cloudborne by himself, he did have company: Two mining daughters poking at his arm and giggling at his jokes. He was clearly too young to be at the Cloudborne by local female company only - boys his age came either with family or friends, and if they happened to dine in solitude, they ate with both hands, slurping their Mahdu greedily before heading to bed to rest for another day of hard work. Boys his age would certainly not be sipping slowly on a cup of thick, stubborn Mahdu while entertaining girls.

“See?” Munik snorted as the boy accepted one of the girl’s hand and kissed it. “Kids who run away from Archades are nothing but upper class brats on a rampage, seeking adventure. Look at him, emptying our Mahdu and stealing our women. You’d be doing us all a favour.”

And so it was that Fran made the resolve to attempt her first true act of piracy: Relieving the wealthy and fortunate to support those who have nothing.

¨

Persuading one of the girl’s fathers to have a cup at the Cloudborne was no hard task for a few select members of the clan. It didn’t even take half an hour for the large, bearded mine worker to crash in through the door in want of his free Mahdu. Fran stood with her back against one of the pillars, keeping one ear on the brute, another on the table in the corner.

“Oh no, it’s my _tatah_ ”, the brunette moaned at the sight of the man, unhappy. “He’s not gonna be happy if he sees us here. Kamille, we should go” she said to the redhead.

The scarfed boy glanced quickly around the room, suddenly seeming nervous. There was a chance he’d already spotted the three Diatroma members watching their table giddily with their arms crossed - Fran could not tell.

He placed his hand softly on Kamilles arm. “Ladies, if you have your mind set on leaving - maybe you wouldn’t mind taking this lonely boy for a tour of the city while his ship is in repair?” With his other hand, he flipped a silver coin. “I bet there are other places you can get a bottle of Mahdu - I much rather prefer drinking in the moonlight anyway.”

Kamille and her companion lit up. “Okay, Balthier - come with us!” The disobedient daughter pulled at his arm, excited. Moments later the three were sneaking their way out through the crowd, Fran left standing to watch the youth disappear.

 _Balthier_. Fran furrowed her brows. The Goddess of Labor had clearly decided this was going to be more work for her than she first presumed.

¨

The word on the street was there was a boy with a ship in Bhujerba, whose father had sent him to have said ship repaired. The word also said his story was of a fairly unbelievable character, and that Diatroma had set their eyes on him first. Fran was not worried about having to leave her pursuit for the night, however she wanted to end this as quick as possible.

She and her fellow hunters had laid out a plan, requiring this Balthier to go with her on a hunt in the mines. As the day broke, she decided she was going to be in possession of an airship by the end of the day.

But the boy appeared to have gone underground. He was nowhere to be seen. The clan was on lookout all morning, but in the end it was Fran herself who found him, in the last place they all thought to look for him; for which spoilt Archadian kid would spend the night in his cold airship?

Fran had asked her way through the different shops, finally finding herself walking through the door of the hangar where the kid has parked his ship.

Daylight slipped in through the major gap in the roof as she beheld the _Strahl_ for the first time. She was huge, neat, strange, beautiful, clumped, streamlined; all and everything at the same time. The Moogles had already began stripping off parts of her exterior. _How suitable of a rich man to take care of the facade first_ , she snorted silently, yet again remembering the worthlessness she’d felt those times she’d been led around a ballroom attached to the arm of an Archadian gentry.

Walking closer to the ship, she noticed the how Moogles were also at work with repairs on the engine. “This job is discreet”, they had told Fran the night before, after she had to watch Balthier and the girls disappear out of sight. The Moogles might be a prejudice race, but Fran had to give credit to their integrity.

They did however share how the facade work was the biggest part of the job, and then there were some “fine tuning of the engine”.

Fran was close enough to notice the ship’s steel decorations having fine imprints on them as the leading man of her little play appeared from underneath one of the wings. Clever boy, giving off the impression of working on his father’s ship.

This boy named Balthier did neither stare at her ears nor her claws, but he did offer her legs a satisfied look as he wiped off his hands on a piece of cloth. “Good morning”, he nodded. “Enjoying the sights of the docks?”

By the sound of his voice, the Moogles turned around, greeting Fran by her name, which was a mistake. She didn’t want the boy to know she was familiar around this place. The more he saw her as a Viera in need and nothing else, the better.

“I was just going through the hangars in search for aid”, she said.

“I see”, he said. “What kind of aid should the lady be in need of?” There was a sparkle in his eyes. Fran did not find it strange the girls decided so quickly to take him with them last night.

“I am going to fight this monster”, she said, clumsily holding up a bill. “Would you perhaps care to assist me?”

He took the bill, studying it. “And why is it, out of all the sturdy men in this city, you choose to ask me?”

Fran shifted her weight. “All the other hunters are occupied. I need someone to keep lookout, that is all. Maybe fend off a minor beast or two. By the looks of it, you’ll be stranded all day”, she said, looking over at the detached parts lying around the airship.

He handed her the bill back, any other reaction lingering. She blinked rapidly. “I see it is too much to ask. The mines can be a deceitful place. Thank you for hearing my inquiry. I bid you a wonderful day in sunny Bhujerba.” She smiled and turned to leave.

She could hear him chew his lip. “Well, I guess I wouldn’t be a proper gentleman if I didn’t agree to help out a lady in need”, he called after her. _Bingo_ , Fran thought. Appealing to Hume male’s sense of chivalry never seemed to fail. She had found the best way to have a man spend his gil on her, was to tell him she wouldn’t want him to empty his pockets on her behalf.

¨

When Balthier exited the Strahl with his choice of weaponry, Fran frowned. He kept a gun tucked at the small of his back, but his weapon of choice was a blunt-looking two-hand sword, clinging to his back like a piece of railroad shrapnel. It looked oddly misplaced, and not very elegant. Fran waved it off as his way of supporting his story of being an average son of Dorstonis.

Fran used her credentials as a clan member to let them into the mines, then they set off into the sparsely lit dark caves. For the first part of their trek, they passed miners working, but as they neared the location of their mark, the caves were empty. The clan did not choose their location by chance. A desolated area was easier to give off as a place in need of monster clearing.

“Shadewanderer, huh”, he said after a while, walking next to Fran. “What’s your strategy?”

“The mark feeds on Steelings. As we take out a few, it should appear. You watch out for the Shadewanderer”, she said. “Should too many Steelings appear, you may take them out if you wish. But remember I am not paying you for the risk of any labour of larger sorts.” Balthier nodded his affirmative. “A Steeling or two shouldn’t be a problem”, he said with confidence. Fran smiled.

Half an hour later, they reached the area where the made-up mark were said to dwell. Fran led them through a rolled-up gate into a larger opening in the cave. A few hundred feet further in, to where they could not see, Fran knew there was a second gate Munik had closed earlier the same day. “Now all we need to do is wait”, she said.

Not long after, the first few Steelings crawled out through their holes in the ceiling on the other side of the gate, flapping their wings as they signaled their friends there was something of interest going on. They flew under the open gitter towards them, Fran swiftly taking out the first three, Balthier loosening his gun from his back, looking out for their mark.

As they waited for the non existing mark to appear, more Steelings found their way under the gate and into the opening in cave. They increased rapidly in number, Fran using magick to save arrows, Balthier firing shots at others. She was deliberately being too slow to take them out at the rate they appeared. Not long after the two of them were swamped in flapping wings.

“There’s too many of them!” Fran cried in her best dramatic voice. “I’ll shut the gate! Watch them until I can free your back!”

She turned on her heel and headed for the mechanical operator, her heart beating faster. She would press the switch to lower the gate, and as he would struggle with keeping the Steelings away like a true hero, she would sneak under the gate, applying her arrows to the Steelings through the openings as the gate came to a shut. The boy would be trapped - but safe. By the time her clan members of Diatroma ‘accidentally’ found him a few hours later, scratching their beards confirming how that Viera always did appear a little shady, she would have taken off with his ship, leaving him no option but to return to Archades with his tail between his legs.

But as she neared the switch, Fran heard a Steeling shriek, then another, and another, way too fast for what she expected. One scream was rapidly replaced by the other. As she closed her hand around the switch and pulled it, the pack of monsters sounded like they’d already been halved.

She was too apprehensive to turn to find out, all she could think was to head for the gate and make her way under it before he could follow. She was twenty steps away from the closing gate, fifteen, ten; the wailing of dying Steelings echoing off the stone walls. As she was five steps away from her new airship, her freedom, the gate barely three feet above the ground, she heard and felt the distinct blast of Balthier’s gun being fired behind her. With despair, she saw the gate come to a complete halt, the metal moaning as it shook back and forth in its tracks.

Fran froze, the cave completely silent but for the noise of the gate stilling. She knew immediately what had caused it to hold - she could smell the burning and smoke coming off the mechanism. It was a one in a hundred hit. Even a rich kid keeping guns as a serious hobby would not have made this shot, let alone farm boys of Dorstonis.

A sword was swiftly tucked in place on a man’s back, then she heard the footsteps signed by shoes unfit to wear in this cave, shoes much too fancy for a man who could swing a two-handed sword quick enough to take out thirty Steelings in under a minute. The boy clearly was trained by the best, long-range and short-range alike, which didn't fit to any military or apprentice program Fran knew in Archadia. With his looks, Archadian accent and ship, Fran still couldn't see him as anything but fortunate. People from the gutter had access to neither weapons or training such as his, nor to a theft of this kind.

“I find it a bit unflattering for a lady of your elegance and intelligence to call this right here asking for a gentleman’s help,” Balthier said articulately, his voice sounding much more mature as it echoed off the walls. Her ears stiffened as she heard the cocking of a gun behind her head. “-- when you’re so clearly trying to rob me of my airship.”

Fran kept still. Not only had he seen through her disguise - he had clearly also understood she had seen through his. This plan had failed in every way possible, which puzzled her. She had trusted the word and experience of her clan members regarding the evaluation of Balthier’s character. It appeared both she and her fellow hunters had failed to see the face behind the boy’s mask - there was clearly more to him than just a spoiled rich man’s son out on his yearly adventure.

Her senses told her the weapon pointed directly at her skull shouldn’t imply a need to fear for her life, but apparently, she could not trust her senses. Fran could detect a lie, but not a truth unspoken, and Balthier had not said a word more than necessary.

“I know not of which you speak”, she tried, already knowing this attempt would fail. “Fran, please --” he said, “-- if that is even your real name. It was painfully obvious from the moment you put your Viera foot near my ship. I asked you honestly of your intentions, but you decided to keep up this facade of yours. You see, love, you failed to realize something of significance --“ his last words sounding a smirk “-- nobody knows facades like sons of upper Archades.”

“Finish me off if you will it”, Fran said, voice stifled. “You have every right to defend your one of many possessions from those of us who have nothing. Though I can not see why you would shoot a defenseless Viera over this ship when you can go back and pick a new one to fly.” Whatever fear she had feeling until now was turning to anger.

Balthier laughed. “Those of you who have nothing,” he repeated. “Well darling, I’m apparently worthy of a prize for my ability to dull your Vieran ears. You still believe me to be a rich man, but my ship is all I have left, you see. And I am not parting with her that lightly.” She could hear by the way he spoke he was smiling. “Had I airships to fling around, I would have given you one gladly. Your efforts were admirable. You must really like her.”

“I have yet to see a more interesting ship”, Fran said honestly.

He seemed pleased by that. Seconds later she heard him uncock his gun, fastening it. At that, she dared to turn.

“Why do you refuse to return to your home?” she asked straight out, studying his childish features. He smirked, well rehearsed in the art of hiding any genuine emotion. “Why won’t you return to whatever treehouse you hopped out of?” he parried.

Fran glared at him. For moments they stood in complete silence, a seventeen year old Hume runaway and a fifty-and-then-many-decades Viera, measuring each other.

“If you swear not to attempt my assassination nor another theft of my sole possession, I will tell you my story”, he finally said, a hint of curiosity buried well within his words.

Fran nodded. “If you promise not to shoot me, I will tell you mine.”

When neither of them moved, he put a hand to his waist. “As I have your attempt of betrayal still fresh in mind, I suggest you go first.” As she started to move, she saw a glint in his eyes. “I’ll be watching the rear.”

¨

“I think it’s only fair you go first”, Balthier said as they walked through the turquoise glimmering caves.

Fran contemplated her words carefully. For almost fifty years of living outside the wood, this was the first time she was asked to tell the story of why she left her home. A wish to be free of boundaries was not the obvious reason, it was merely one of many possible. Some Viera left to experience Hume traits such as falling in love, others because they were doomed unfit by the wood.

“If you ask for my reason to leave the wood, you might just as well ask the meaning behind my taken name”, she said.

Balthier did not take long to answer. “You felt stifled.”

Fran nodded. “Yes.”

“Well my dear,” he said, Fran yet again taken by how a boy his age allowed himself to speak as if he was a much older man, “you seem like a woman my father would appreciate. Or any man of Archades, for that matter.” When Fran kept silent, the question lingering, he added “You’re not exactly a woman of plenty words. Yet you still say much to me”, his voice a grin, “things I get the feeling I don’t think I’d enjoy hearing in spoken words.”

“To me, you are but a Hume boy,” Fran replied. “A Hume boy with a magnificent airship”, she added.

She heard him come to a halt. As she turned around, she saw him looking almost offended. “My story is complete”, she said.

Balthier snorted. “That hardly counts as a story.”

Fran raised one eyebrow ever so slightly. “Well then, give me your story in the same weight of words.”

He pondered for a second. Then, “Archades is a shithole.”

In years, Balthier would know the meaning of the almost-smile now present on her face.

“I would not count those words as a complete story”, she said. “So: Were you the legitimate owner of the ship at your time of departure? Did you leave by your own terms? Do you intend to return?”

Balthier ticked his answers off on his fingers. “No. Yes. Hell no.”

Fran started walking again. “I acquire no further details.”

Balthier kept silent as they walked through the next passage, following the mining railway track. Miners were working at this part of the mine, some greeting them as they passed. Occasionally they stepped aside to let a cart through. “So, were you really going to leave me to rot down here?” he asked. “That would not be my first guess - I suspect someone were going to pick me up for ransom.”

Fran shook her head. “They were going to blame me. You were to go free.”

Balthier chewed on that piece of information. “The Moogles?” he asked.

Fran shook her head again. “They had no part in it.”

“You’re surprisingly honest”, he said.

Fran shrugged. “I had made the same presumptions the clan made. Those presumptions turned out to be wrong. The cards have changed.”

They had indeed. This was no longer a case of snatching a toy from a rich kid. Fran was not in the company of a boy, she was walking through the caves of Lhusu with a skilled swordsman - young, but clever. Still in possession of a very fine airship.

She tapped the claw on her thumb against the ones on her other fingers. He was clearly inexperienced with the world outside Archades, but she sensed talent in him. He was not the last captain she would be willing to serve under. She now possessed enough skill with ships and their systems to refrain from grinding this boy in his pilot chair, which meant less risk for him starting to pay more attention to her than to the count of gil for food, or the direction to steer his ship. She did not want a new captain to grow attached to her like the last one did.

“So”, Balthier said, “should I consider myself free to go as I please?”

Fran came to a halt again.

“The clan might not so easily believe your story. Should they decide not to, I believe, even for your sword arm, you would find yourself parted with airship and weapons both.”

Balthier chewed carefully on his words. Chances were she was spinning more lies, in which case should he trust her, he was sure to lose his ship. On the other hand, one man was not enough to protect a valuable vessel like his, especially a man of no gil. Fran and the clan had seen so easily through his disguise. Others would do the same. No matter how good his skills with a sword, he was vulnerable. Fran had a feeling he knew he sooner or later he would have to put his gil on a Cockatrice.

He looked at her, eyes dark with solemnity.

“Were I to hire you, would we be able to fend them off?”

Fran’s ears flicked forward.

“They would have to conjure up every Summon and spell in their possession in order to even stand a chance”, she said. “I know most of their tricks. Between my knowledge and arrows and your sword, they would have to put up quite the fight. And they would all have to be present.”

Balthier grinned. “And you would use those tricks? Against your allies?”

Fran tilted her head. “You must know one thing about this Viera, Balthier. She has lived too long to stay loyal to any king, country nor lord. I never swore an oath to the clan. If I tell them I am there for your protection, they will know my words to be true, and they will accept them.”

He crossed his arms. “Name your price.”

She enjoyed taking her time, for someone who already knew her wants. “Take me on your ship. For a month.”

At those words, he looked like he was getting off easy. “Done.”

¨

They sat in the Cloudborne drinking Mahdu, carefully observing each other. Even for their deal, there was a sense of caution lingering between them. Both of them were players finally discovering their equal match.

Balthier had made it clear he intended to pay for their meal. He was a gentleman, after all. These words amsed Fran, holding her tongue from telling him a true gentleman would never announce himself as one. Clever and accomplished for his age he might be, but dry behind the ears, he was not.

When they entered the Cloudborne together, Munik had been standing by the bar, looking at Fran, as if saying _how did this fail?_ Fran had signaled by a wave of her hand she would tell the story later. In some ways, even for Fran being more content the way things had progressed, there was a sense of shame in not trotting in by herself.

“What labour have you planned for your ship?” Fran asked, sipping her Mahdu after the serving boy had cleared their table. “I assume you mean to freight, or hunt treasure.”

He nodded. “She’s fast enough to outrun most military vessels. I was thinking of offering my service for transport. And who’s to say, if we happen to pick up word on treasure - why not. You’ve seen my sword arm - as I have seen your ability for stealth”, he mocked. “A Viera with engravings of King Raminas’ coronation on her armour. You must have fought quite a few monsters in your time.”

Fran abstained from noting how she had not actually seen his sword in action. There was no need for further proof; She trusted her ears as well as her eyes.

“I’ll be doing some more upgrades to her”, Balthier continued. “If I can negotiate a decent price, she’ll be docked here for about a week, preferably two.” He grimaced. “I need to take some of Archades out of the bird. Not just the necessary stuff, such as the tracking system. I feel sorry for her at the moment, she desperately needs a new dress and some new gems. My gil should cover the initial upgrades. But then I’ll have to find ways to make more.”

Fran nodded. “Between my knowledge of the regions, and your ship’s systems, I think we will do well.” The Madhu was softening her up. “I should add, I am quite happy to be your...” she was looking for which of the terms would fit better; mechanic, tech, co-pilot, fellow treasure hunter...  “accomplice.”

“Partner”, Balthier said. He’d had enough Mahdu to fling a leg up on the table, and as he did, Fran had the feeling he could grow into someone she could learn to like.

¨

A couple of weeks later he showed her what the Strahl could really do. The boy had not been lying. The ship had a personality beyond anything she’d had the pleasure of experiencing before. Sitting in the co-pilot chair, her hands feeling the leather upholstery, it was strange thinking how she’d finally reached her goal of flying. _An animal of the ground in the sky_ , she thought. So displaced but yet so right.

It never reached the point where Fran had to offer Balthier her arrows in Bhujerba. At the Cloudborne that night before, she’d called two of her clan members over to their table. “Hunters, this here is Balthier”, she’d said. “He stole his airship from the Archadian army, and will now roam the skies freely.” She had seen the question lingering on their faces - wondering if their Viera had become another victim fallen for this Hume boy’s sweet tongue, or if she’d just turned gullible over night.

She replied before they had a chance to ask. “He does not intend to return to Archades, he is a free man with a sole airship. Should you not believe him”, she said, looking at Balthier, “I would like to see you try to duel him.” At those words, the flame from their lonely candle reflected in both their eyes.

Munik groaned, knowing their plan had failed. All they could do now was go for the second best option. “So, _Balthier_ \- would you be interested in transporting a few objects of value?” to which Balthier shrugged. “Once I get those repairs done, why not.” Munik nodded, about to leave their table. “Just remember one thing”, Balthier added. “I don’t respond well to orders.” There it was again: The words not matching the voice which spoke them.

Munik snorted. “Out here in the free world, every man is his own commander in chief. No orders are given, none are taken”, he huffed. “‘Orders.’ One should think you used to be military, son.” He gave his own words no further thought, nodding to Fran before leaving. Fran saw Balthier picking up on her curious look from the other side of the table.

Fran believes this was the first time she saw him pull his upper lip ever so slightly into a snare while wrinkling his nose, the tiniest grimace she would learn to associate with Balthier unintendedly dropping his paling, always rebuffing it but a heartbeat later. He would later learn not to be so overly crass with her every time it happened, for the jokes he could pull on her were often of a rather cruel kind. This was part of who he was, Fran learned. Balthier had an arrogance to him, bobbing to the surface when stressed or corrected. He could be a very different young man when things got heated, using his cleverness along with his manipulative skills to get them out of the fix. If that didn’t suffice; his sword. This was a very different Balthier than the Balthier who would sit in his pilot chair, bare feet propped up on the dashboard, delicately biting the nail on one thumb as he carefully studied old maps or texts for traces of treasure.

It was in moments like these Fran would offer him a slice of the dried meat she was snacking on or a handful of nuts, which he would happily accept along with a face conveying an honest thank you. She enjoyed leaning back to close her eyes while chewing on her treat delicately, the sun shining in through the large window in the cockpit to warm her skin. As she did, she knew he sometimes watched her. Fran was happy to help this orphan experience peace.

¨

In addition to his facade of arrogance, another thing about Balthier Fran learned early, was his love for women. At this, he was nearly as skilled as he was a swordsman; Fran found it fascinating how a boy of 17 already had worked up such experience in dealing with the opposite sex. His most important tool was, he enjoyed talking to them. He surely appreciated the attention too; Fran could see he was not poorly off for a Hume, even for so young. There was a certain characteristic to how his nose fit with his lips and hooded eyes, his features fittingly colored in hues of brown. For a Hume, he was tall too, a trait Hume women seemed to appreciate.

He also liked keeping his hair neatly groomed and his shirt clean. “The key”, he told Fran one day they were in the cockpit of a docked Strahl, “is to smell as natural as possible. You need to be clean, but not perfumed - it scares them off.”

Fran was barely listening with half an ear, trying to learn the navigational system of the Strahl. They had landed in Rabanastre for a new set of repairs, Balthier intending to take her to the Sandsea - with her as his dinner date, intending to pick up girls. His use for her services were many, some odder than others. As they were getting into a routine of earning enough gil to keep them going and upgrading the Strahl, they had enough to splurge once in awhile. Balthier liked spending his excess on wine and women. Fran enjoyed prowling armour shops. There were always something new to get, a new type of arrow feathers, dagger handle or materials to put status ailments in the different types of ammunition.

She also enjoyed certain types of street food, the Muthru Bazaar of Rabanastre being her favorite. After helping Balthier pick up a girl, she would sit on the stone stairs of the Dalmascan capital, which were yet to be invaded by the Archadian Empire, happily chewing on a spit of roasted flan while watching the night life of the busy city unfold.

One of the upgrades Balthier wanted to do to the Strahl, was to change the feel of military vessel to a proper home. The hall next to the cockpits had beds on each side of the hall, which he would later build into tiny rooms. As the ship was now, they slept on each side of the hall. They were both used to sleeping in common rooms. As Fran learned later, Balthier had indeed a history as a military man, sharing rooms with fellow soldiers, while Fran often slept in large tents or common rooms at the inns - they were always a lot cheaper than buying a single room. Dressing under a sheet were nothing new to either of them.

One night Balthier was having problems settling, kicking his sheets. Fran remained silent, waiting for him to grow impatient enough to perform some kind of action, either getting out of bed, or start talking to her. As he kept kicking, she turned around to face him in the dark. “I have a feeling you’re about to tell me something of importance”, she said.

In the dark she could barely see him grin. “You need to up your efforts as my accomplice, Fran. I’ve been lonely for too many nights now, this during a period I can afford the Sandsea.”

“Balthier, contrary to what you yourself believe, your issues regarding women is of little interest to me.”

“Why”, he said, “It should be in your interest to keep your captain happy.”

She snorted. “Please.”

He kicked the sheets some more, then settled on his back with his arms resting behind his head.

“You take no interest in any of that, do you.”

“Well”, she said, “there was a pirate, some time ago - it must have been around the time you were born. No, it was before”, she added, Balthier turning his face to look at her with a look of half surprise, half disdain. He knew she was far, far older than him, but how much, he had no idea, and neither did he take interest in knowing.

When Fran didn’t say anything further, he said “well?”

Fran shrugged. “There was a pirate. Did my story confuse you?”

Balthier laughed. “I know you’re not used to spitting details, Fran, but you have to give me more than that.” He paused. “Did you fly with him? Was he Hume?”

“Yes”, she said, to both. “He showed me the workings of his ship, I showed him - “ she was looking for the words, this was not a topic she spoke often of - “...something different than the workings of a machine.”

“That was your _payment_?” Balthier said in surprise.

“No”, Fran said, almost adding a second no. “It was curiosity.” She smiled a tiny smile in the dark. “I wanted to see how he worked. He was a kind man, or, well, he was kind to _me_ , and they were interesting experiences. Although I do not think I experienced them to the fullness that he did - or as I presume you do when you are with your lovers.”

Balthier propped himself up on an elbow. “Wait. You’re saying you didn’t lust for him when you were with him?”

“Yes”, Fran replied.

“They why did you?”

“Lust is not the only reason to be intimate with someone”, she said. “Tell me, is lust the only reason you take lovers to your bed?”

“Of course! Why else would I? Or they?” Balthier blurted, but his voice was not so sure.

“Those lovers of yours, they might just be craving your attention.”

Balthier’s face had a look of disgust. “You make me sound awful, Fran. I don’t want them to sleep with me solely for my attention!”

Fran looked at him, eyes dark red in the darkness. “Your lovers are capable of making their own decisions, Balthier. They are adult women. Whether they sleep with you by lust or for attention, what does it matter, as long as they have a good time?”

Balthier didn’t speak, he only glared at her, quizzical. “I would rather they felt good”, he muttered.

After some time he lied back down and pulled the sheet up to his chin. Barely a minute later Fran could tell by his breathing he was fast asleep.

¨

Some time later she was sitting in the Sandsea when she overheard two girls a few tables away, giggling over a bottle of spiced wine. A third joined them, sparkles in her eyes.

“Tell us!” the two other wailed, the third one grinning as she sat down between them. Fran recognized the third. She was the girl Balthier drank with in the Sandsea the night before.

There was a whole lot of giggling and pushing around before the third one spoke. “Whatever people have said, he truly is a gentleman.” They leaned close together, lowering their voices, whispering so low Fran had problems eavesdropping. “...focused entirely on me, he almost refused to give up, so I had to literally ravage him!”

 _Well well_ , Fran thought to herself. Turns out she did have some influence on the whelp after all.

¨

As much as Balthier trusted Fran, he still had his quarrels with everyone else. Fran rarely got involved with his arguments with shopkeepers, Moogles and petitioners. Part of what she enjoyed about being his partner was she got to stand back and enjoy watching him take the arguments. His animated arguing would often bring them into trouble, but Fran didn’t mind. The count of hilarities having ensued since she started flying with him were many, all of which she memorized with fondness. Having heard of Balthier’s odd ways of solving problems, people would give them the strangest of missions. There was an imagination and an energy to the boy Fran was sure she would never have found in an older companion.

Sometimes, his angered turned towards her. There was one time they couldn’t agree on the fastest way to a mark down in Ozmone. Fran refused to let it go, as she knew from years of experience with this area she was right. They quarreled for an hour until Balthier pulled the switch and overruled her.

When the navigational system later proved Fran had been right all along, he had made up all kinds of hilarious reasons the system had traced their route wrongly. Clearly it added miles to their distance!

“You’re not going to tell them to take a look at the nav system?” she teased the next time they had the Strahl in for more upgrades. Balthier had treated her as if she was poisonous for the next two days. A couple of years later they had a similar argument, over how the system calculated remaining power, to which Balthier still came up with the wildest accusation towards the Strahl - though this time he did it with a sparkle in his eye.

In general, he was becoming less pretentious. But more than anything, he was becoming a very good friend.

¨

Balthier was juggling grapes from Nalbina one day they were flying, his feet flung up on the dashboard, blue skies clear and open in front of them. Now and then he would signal for Fran to catch one with her mouth, to which she teasingly shook her head, Balthier eating them himself instead.

“Nothing but blue skies ahead”, he said.

Fran nodded. “An endless sea of possibilities.”

“Treasures to be taken, beasts to kill, rich men to be robbed, virtues to be taken --” he threw a grape and caught it with his mouth. “Freedom is the sweetest taste there ever was.”

¨  
¨

For a man who once loved his freedom, his life these days are anything but free. Yet, as Fran watches him accept another squirming beetle from his daughter, Balthier doesn’t give off the impression of feeling trapped.

He is now a family man, a father of two squirts who, to their parent’s worry, both seem to have inherited their father’s levels of energy. Serpent has done nothing for the past fifteen minutes but repeating a ritual of digging for beetles, picking one up, then walk up to her father to proudly hand over her gift, shrieking _here! daddy! here!_ so loud Fran’s ears flinch with discomfort.

“Thank you sweetheart, this one surely is the most precious so far”, he tells the beaming girl before she stomps off to look for another one.

Balthier rubs his eyes, sighing. When he opens them, Fran grins, and he snickers.

They are sitting on the stone stairs leading to the porch on the backside of Balthier and Claire’s house. A few feet away Balthier’s goat fence looks to be in need of mending. Rather, it appears to _still_ be in need of mending, Balthier at some point having began repairing it, but not being able to finish as something else claimed his attention.

“Do you realize”, Fran says, “it has been ten years since we partnered up in Bhujerba? It was this time of the year - it might even be this very date, now that I think on it.”

“Huh”, he says, “so is that the reason for this rare occasion of visiting? No Serpent don’t put the beetle in your mouth!”

“You seem to have your hands full these days”, she smiles as Balthier tries convincing his daughter to offer him the beetle instead of her testing the feel of its little sprawling legs on her tongue.

In addition to his time being occupied by his family, Balthier has started working. He mediates contracts for suppliers of various kinds between Archades and Rabanastre, which includes a good deal of paperwork from his office, and the occasional trip to Rabanastre.

“Every time I go, I am dead set on getting in touch up front to check if you’re in town, but then I always forget”, he sighs. “All I do there is work anyway; meetings all day, business dinners at night, then I spend the rest of the time sleeping.” He has a dreamy look on his face.

“No worries”, Fran says. “Most of the time I’m in the eastern parts of Ivalice anyway. There is always something that needs to be moved somewhere.”

“Does your ship yet have a name? Serpent, don’t wander off too far, come back here to daddy.”

Fran smiles. “She’s not really so much a ship as a small cargo vessel.”

“I think you should think of a name. Serpent! Here!”

“We’ll see. Maybe one day.” She gets up and walks towards the crimsonberry bushes where Serpent is bubbling with laughter triggered by the invisible animals only she can see. Fran crouches down by the girl, who looks at her with big, green eyes as she chews on her fist, smiling cheekily.

Fran holds out a hand and lets the smallest amount of Fire form in her palm. The girl gawks at the flame ball with huge eyes. She looks at her father for a potential reaction, then turns back to the magick. Fran is prepared when the girl reaches out to grab the flame; it splits in half where her hand tries to touch it, the girl screaming with joy.

Fran has almost gone through her entire set of spells as Claire exits the house, Serpent screaming for her mother in excitement when she sees her. “Mommy! Spalkels!”

“Look at you! Sparkles, yes!” Claire replies with tenderness.

Claire joins Balthier on the stairs. He puts a hand on her knee and rubs it gently. “He’s finally asleep”, she sighs, closing her eyes slightly. “He must have caught it from the other kids. I’m probably gonna have the same thing tomorrow.”

“Mommy! Ice!” Claire watches Fran playing with her daughter. “She likes that”, Claire says. “I wish I had your abilities, Fran.” She pauses. “At this moment I kinda wish I had your life. I’d die to be able to sit in my own ship and do nothing.”

Fran knows the girl does not mean ill by her words.

“Claire, if there weren’t for hunters like Fran, we’d probably be out of a house”, Balthier says, “and I’d most likely be out of a job.”

Claire closes her eyes. “Oh no - that’s not how I meant it. Sorry, Fran. I’m just really tired.” She forces her face into a smile.

“Do not worry. I can understand they are a lot of work.” As her magick is draining, Fran ends the spell as softly as possible. When Serpent understand there will be no more spells, she starts crying very loud in protest.

Balthier is quick to pick her up. “Come on baby, don’t scare aunt Fran off, we don’t want her to never come back, do we” he comforts her, winking at Fran before walking up to Claire, who holds out her arms for the child. “It’s nearing bedtime anyway”, she says. “It’s nice to see you again, Fran. Please pardon the mess and everything, we were going to serve you a proper meal, but then Snow got sick, and --” Fran shakes her head.

¨

“I wish I had time to sit down with you and actually talk”, Balthier says as they reach her ship.

Fran smiles tenderly. “Balthier, it is good to see you again, but you look half dead from lack of sleep.” He sighs at that. “When the children are older, you can come see me in Balfonheim, or I will meet you in Rabanastre. Do not feel sorry. We live different lives now.”

There are things she could tell him, things she _wants_ to tell him, about her life in Balfonheim, about piracy, the scars she has gained, the lovers she’s attempted to keep over the past four years. But she sees how his eyes are veiled with exhaustion, so instead she puts her hand to his cheek as she did at the Pharos years ago. “I fly, for that is what a pirate does. You stay put, until we one day meet again.”

Before he can touch his hand to hers, she lowers her own. “Goodbye, my friend.”

Fran has always appreciated the quiet, especially the quiet in the cockpit of her own one-man vessel. The only sound noticeable is the soft hum from the engine in its belly. It is a fine evening to fly, nothing but blue skies ahead. Yet somehow Fran can’t help thinking where she once saw endless possibilities, she now only sees an empty sky.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Having Fran being prejudice towards Balthier, even for herself being prejudiced by the Moogles, was a conscious choice. We often fail to recognize how we perform the same crime towards others that are done towards ourselves.
> 
> The parts about retelling how Baltheir is aggressive towards people would be better explained with scenes, but this thing already hit 10,000 words and I had to draw the line somewhere.
> 
> Also, obviously Claire got to decide the baby's name again. X)


	6. Reprise

 

The smell of salt sea, delicately swirled with the fresh summer breeze, washes in through the open windows of the Whitecap. White strands of hair tickles Fran’s face as she contemplates the arrows, flasks and tools spread out on the wooden table in front of her. Besides her in the tavern, there’s only the young Hume couple in the corner enjoying a late breakfast, behind the counter a girl sorting orders.

Fran is waiting for Louis and Gumalu of Clan Buckaboo. The three of them are heading up into the northern parts of Cerobi to take down a wyrm responsible for hindering the Moogle’s repairs of the windmills. Fran is pleased; the Moogles usually pay well. Following this hunt she will consider taking a few days off, preferably going with Gumalu to Jahara to smoke some pipe with the Garif and see if they have any new weapons or spells of interest.

Fran has been spending her time doing Elite marks with Buckaboo, the last few marks keeping company with especially these two hunters. She has no new partner, her airship is barely a ship - she calls her ‘bucket’ and kicks her when she won’t behave. Every time she’s pieced the old bird back together, Fran feels guilt, even for her awareness of the ship being dead metal and stone, and no living thing. The Bucket is no Strahl, will never be a Strahl, a realization which should not matter either way, but Fran keeps having this very thought and detests herself for it: There is no point in longing, ever. There’s no point to abusing a piece of metal with her foot purely for her own emotional relief. Fran is learning too much from Humes these days.

Deep in preparations, Fran is not prepared for the noise and leaps as the front door of the Whitecap blows open with a slam - or, so it appears, until she lifts her gaze and beholds in the doorway no one else but the Hume that over a decade ago was her sky pirate partner.

She has not seen Balthier in over six years. He is thinner than the last time she saw him, his hair  - though his hairline receded - is cut similar to how he used to wear it over ten years ago when their partnership ended. The cuffs are back, so are the leather trousers - they look to be the exact pair he wore back then, his vest and jewellery also resembling the trinkets he collected from the different ports and towns they visited together. He is clean-shaven, resembling a lot more the pirate he once was, rather than the family man she remembers from her last visit to the Rabanastrian outskirts.

He walks into the Whitecap like he owns the place. Fran feels like she is part of some absurd short story. He halts, feet placed wide apart, a hand on his hip, lifting Betelgeuse with a brisk motion to rest on his shoulder. Fran is surprised he hasn’t traded it in yet for something domestically arbitrary such as a new set of cutlery.

He sees her, cocks an eyebrow, one side of his mouth pulled up. Even for having reached the proper age fit for his his large words and actions, there is still something overly cocky about him. He does not speak, so Fran says nothing, putting the arrow she was working on slowly down on the table.

When she holds her silence, Balthier lowers the gun and scoffs. “Just like old times, eh?” He walks the few stone steps down to her. “You always were impossible to impress.”

Fran stares at him as he takes a seat on the bench next to her. “Well, I was quite taken with the Strahl”, she begins, and at that he looks pleased. “What in _Sunken Agatha’s lost treasure_ are you doing here, Balthier?”

He looks disappointed. “I thought you’d at least be somewhat happy to see me.” He throws out an arm dramatically. “‘Tis I, Balthier! Your old partner! Have you forgotten my existence?”

“Judging from the past years of postcard exchange, it is not _I_ who have forgotten _thee_ ”, Fran responds dryly. She goes back to infusing Oil to her arrows.

Balthier quiets. “Sorry, love. Raising two Hell-hounds pretty much drains you for all energy. Work has been excruciating as well. Not to mention trying to be husband to an Archadian wife.”

 _Love_. The word appears to no longer be reserved for Claire.

“I thought the both of you had decided to stay a Dalmascan family.”

Balthier scoffs. “So had I.”

He orders ale, and looks as if he is about to fall over as he takes the first sip. For minutes he does nothing but sit with his back against the table, one elbow resting on its rough surface, the other lovingly clenching the worn, wooden mug. “Ale never tastes this sweet in crystal glass”, he murmurs.

Fran continues her preparations, packing the arrows neatly into their container. “You going on a hunt?” Balthier asks as he reluctantly pulls himself away from the intimacy with his beer. “Wyrm”, Fran replies. “Up in Cerobi, Northsward. Two clan members and I. A Shield Wyrm accidentally had access to Mist up there and has grown a little healthier than good.”

Balthier wastes not a moment. “Can I come?”

Fran looks at him, doubtful. “It is a Wyrm. You haven’t been taking hunts for, what must it be now - eleven years? Do you really see yourself fit to this task?”

Balthier shrugs. “If I die, you get the honors of throwing the first hand of dirt over my body.” He finishes his ale and sets the mug down, leaning both elbows on the table, stretching his legs.

Fran cannot believe him. She has yet to ask twice, which means he is yet to explain - but why in the Goddess's name is he here, of all places, Fran thinks, when he just revealed he is still swamped with work, along with having children and a wife to take care of? And as for not sharing, why does he choose to joke about dying from all this responsibility? The man has momentarily lost his mind, Fran thinks. A mild Confusion. Maybe he is overworked, or some clever monster invented a new merge of Poison and Shear.

She glares at him, puts down her equipment and swings an armoured leg over the bench to face him. At this glint of attention he looks pleased, leaning his head back as he smiles at her, his skin slightly wrinkling at the outer edge of his eyes.

“Balthier. Explain this.”

At that, he seems rather unhappy. He squinches his eyes shut.

“Fran, don’t… don’t ask, please.” He looks down at his feet. “Just... let me do something that makes my heart beat faster, for once. I barely managed to get back into these trousers, at least let me look the part.” He shifts his weight on the bench, his mouth curling. “Even if I seem unable to move.”

At that, Fran finds herself laughing: Teeth showing as she lets off sounds of amusement, which is something she realizes he has not witnessed before. His face lights up with complete surprise.

“You… laugh now? What is this strange noise?” he says, eyes shining as he studies her.

Fran's chuckles. “Do you promise to stay in the background and not jeopardize neither yourself or our hunt?” Balthier nods his promise, still grinning. The look of appreciation on his face is apparent.

Fran shakes her head. “Oh old friend. I must be mad.”

¨

When she presents Balthier to her fellow hunters, they glare at her in disbelief, but they do not ask why, or question her choices. They know Fran well enough to know Fran would never undertake something she could not handle - or would be willing to take full responsibility for. “He is to carry our things and observe. He will not take part in the fight with the Wyrm, nor will he claim part of the bounty.”

Louis, a bronzed Hume of Rozarrian origin nearing his forties, looks at Balthier and cocks his head. “Balthierrr.” He chews on the name. “You once flew the Strahl, yes?” When Balthier confirms, the hunter nods, both of the Buckaboo members looking satisfied from this information. “What happened to you”, the young Garif Gumalu asks, “injury? Imprisonment? Retirement?” “Family”, Balthier snorts. They both nod, looking at him like they both would prefer their own suggestions over his answer. They ask no further questions.

The Mist responsible for creating the oversized wyrm is believed to be so strong they dare not take an airship, so they're marching through the southern part of Cerobi in the wonderful summer weather. Louis is scouting ahead, choosing a path avoiding the few flying encounters they see. Gumalu follows, Fran and Balthier last, watching the rear. Fran ears are turned back, listening for danger. She does not trust Balthier’s instincts to be what they once were. The few beasts they see are either busy lounging in the sun or resting in the shade - they encounter a minimum of trouble as they go, Gumalu clearing them easily with his axe.

“Do you remember those Hellhounds in Golmore?” Balthier asks as Gumalu takes out a couple of Bandercoeurls. “Those Sonice Fangs took me completely by surprise. I still remember the look on your face when you had to pull me out of that fix”, he grins. “I also remember your babbling after Elder Wyrm Confused you. Up until then I thought Mjrn was the most out of it Viera I would ever have the pleasure of experiencing.” He sighs pleased. “I’m a little sad I didn’t just let you shed those ‘hindrances’, as you referred to your clothes, then watch you hop off. Would have been a sight to remember.”

Fran snorts. “Probably just as memorable as that time I had to Float you out of a window on the third floor of a building in Bhujerba to save you from being discovered by a husband with a less than faithful wife.”

“What can I say, I had used up all my magick for that night”, he grins. “The woman was forty-two, married to an Archadian business man, and bored to tears. He hadn’t tended to her in over ten years.”

“Or so she would have you believe.”

“Shush Fran, I still want to believe I was the first man to have made her see stars.”

“You believe what you want to, old sailor.” She hits his backside gently with her bow. He chuckles.

“I still get propositioned”, he says. “In Rabanastre and such.”

As usual when Balthier starts with his stories involving women, Fran only listens with half an ear, and then Louis spots a Charybterix claiming their attention.

One Charybterix and one hill later, Balthier stops to remove his vest and unbutton the top part of his shirt - he is not used to walking, especially not in warm weather. In addition, their trek is becoming quite steep. But he keeps up the pace, he does not hold them back.

They reach a flat area where the ground is less grassy, more dried clay. Fran waits for him. When he catches up with her, he wipes the sweat from his forehead. “I’d forgotten how much of a hunt is travelling and how little is actual hunting”, he snickers.

Fran offers him her water skin. He accepts it and takes a few heavy sips, then turns to look at the view. They’ve been climbing for some time, the breeze is fresh up here and the view amazing. Balthier suddenly looks emotional. When Fran glances at him quizzically, he laughs it off. “It is different seeing the view from here than from a sky ferry”, he says.

“Do you travel much in your work these days?”

“Some. Mostly to Archades, a few times to Rabanastre. But most of the time I sit in my office trying to ignore hearing my offspring fight over which of the two of them has the best whichever to make them best at whatever.”

“They are 10 and 7 now, are they not?” Fran asks. Balthier nods. “Seven _and a half_ , mind you. But yes. Old enough to go to school, feed the goats and clean themselves, not yet old enough to know the meaning of ‘if you want to keep eating, daddy needs to work’”.

Fran chuckles. “I wish you brought a picture.” She grimaces. “Or sent me some now and then.”

Balthier turns silent for a moment. “I know. It’s… things hasn’t been so well between me and Claire, Fran. She’d rather I don’t talk much to people from my past. Or of them. That’s you included.”

Fran gestures towards herself with both arms. Balthier laughs. “She does not know I am here. She thinks I am still in Rabanastre.”

“Did you not tell her?” Fran says with surprise. “Nor the children?”

He shrugs. “What’s the difference? It is only for a couple of days. Contrary to what she believes herself, Claire does not have a say in every tiny matter that concerns me.” He puts emphasis on the last words. Clearly this has been a major issue between them. Balthier seems set on defying rather than complying. When Fran was flying with Balthier, she had no right to know where he went and what he did, as long as he paid her what he owed and his absence didn’t cause her major inconvenience. She assumes a wife can expect more of a husband - even for Balthier no longer running after girls, Fran can imagine he still has his spontaneous ideas like he did back then, such as disappearing for a few hours to look for whatever he’s got his mind set on finding, or taking on new and strange tasks, which he refuses to leave until they are finished. Fran imagines building fences for goats to be an easier task with one child on the way than having two running around his heels demanding a continuously evolving type of attention.

Fran doesn’t speak further. She takes the drinking skin as he hands it back and gestures for them to keep moving. She is nearing the point where she feels happy to see him again, but she is not pleased he is lying to his family about being out here with her.

¨

They reach the Northsward and stop to prepare.

“Gumalu”, Louis says in his strong Rozarrian accent while getting a flask of Ether, “you go in and distrrract him while I set Slow. Frran”, he turns to Fran, “keep your diistance and fire until the Oil sticks. Then we will both cast Firaga until he goes down. I will _c_ handle the _c_ healing so you do what you do best, Frran: Pound him.” He emphasizes the P, a smile on his lips. “Oh - Balthierr - keep your distance.”

“Who died and made him the leading man”, Balthier says as Gumalu and Louis trots off. In response, Fran cocks an eyebrow and smirks, before following them.

Balthier snorts.

As they near the windmills, they spot the wyrm: It is impossible not to, the thing has grown into something overly beastial, its magick wyrm ring almost reaching the top of the windmills. Its claws are gigantic, but its wings still small; its skin as well, as if the magick has provided it with size, but not the shell to host it. “It is in pain”, Fran says as they near it. Gumalu nods. “We are doing her a favour”, the warrior hunter says.

The wyrm is not about to go down without a fight. From his waiting spot covered by the windmills, Balthier can see the wyrm scream as Louis casts the first round of Slow.

The first part of the battle goes exactly as planned. Gumalu tanks and whacks the wyrm with his axe when he has a shot, Louis and Fran casting their magick to the wyrm. Near the end of the fight it uses its last strength to throw up a paling - its movements shifts, turning desperate, knocking off a fan from one of the windmills with its tail. “The Moogles will not be happy”, Louis shouts. The wyrm then goes on to press its body between the windmills. “Ach, get away from there!” Louise yells, going around the windmills to force the wyrm back to the open field.

The blast of a gunshot is being tossed between windmills and rocks, and the wyrm leaps back to the area they started fighting it. Gumalu closes the gap while Fran chases it away from the windmills. She nods a thank you to Balthier as the smoke still rises slowly from Betelgeuse.

“Well, at least I did something”, Balthier says, then the Bandercoeurl whose attention has been caught from the gunshot slams him to the ground from behind with its full weight, gun knocked out of his hands.

There are arms and legs and a wild cursing as Balthier using all his strength to keep the teeth of the cat away from his neck, then it suddenly falls dead on top of him, the unmistakable stench of Poison filling his nostrils. He spends about half a minute lifting the dead thing away from his own body. As he finally gets up to his feet, he quickly collects his gun and looks around for more beasts wanting him down, but he sees none. He hears the wyrm scream its last song of pain.

The hunters gather up what is worth taking and returns to Balthier.

“Thank you for the helping us out - although I guess you ended up paying for it.” Louis' expression is one worthy of Balthier himself.

Balthier glares at him, then gets down on one knee in the dirt as he courteously hands the arrow back to Fran. “I believe I owe the lady my life.” She scoffs, but it sounds more a chuckle. “Poison and added strength”, she says. “You gave me the opportunity to test the mix.”

“Let’s just get out of here”, Louis says and starts walking.

¨

“So let me see this bucket of yours.”

Approaching Balfonheim, Balthier is smiling even for mud and Bandercoeurl hair covering about two thirds of his exterior. Fran agrees and takes him down the narrow streets they once walked in search of Claire.

He laughs gently as he beholds her ship. “I see what you mean. Although”, he adds, “I bet she flies better than she lays.” He looks at Fran. “May I?”

“You want to fly the Bucket?”

He shrugs. “Why not? I haven’t flown in forever.”

“She’s certainly no Strahl.”

He grins. “I’ll bet you I can rub her the right way.”

Half an hour later, Balthier flies her patchwork cargo vessel out over the Dorstonean sea. Fran leans back in her chair. This is the first time anyone has flown her ship - at least for the period of time she’s been registered to Fran.

He pats the Bucket gently on the back at first, but as the sea spreads out in front of them, he speeds her up. “Can she bend?” he asks. “She turns fine enough, but I’d be careful about being too hard on her. When I need to speed her, I usually go straight ahead.”

Balthier looks at Fran, and when Fran looks back at him, she is greeted with the devilish grin so well known to her. His eyes are dark, his jaw straight, his face slightly tilted down.

“Balthier”, Fran sighs, but she can’t help smiling - “-- fine, but I warn you --” the next moment she is thrown back into her chair as Balthier puts all his weight to the pedal.

The ship creaks and slams with contempt as he rides her hard over the foaming waves. “Does she shoot foam?” he yells, at which Fran is about to yell back she has never tried; the next moment she feels the ship vibrate intently as the well known sound of water being forced to the sides of the ship floods her ears. The vessel roars, protests; but she holds, cutting water surprisingly well. At that, Balthier pushes her harder down into the water, drops of sea racing over the front window, creating a crazed shield of blinking pebbles. The ship roars, slams; Fran is afraid she will not hold.

“Balthier, she is no Strahl! She can not handle this!”

“There is more to this bird than you think”, he shouts, “remember that time we outran those Archadian fighters near the border? You were sure she would break”, he flips the stick downwards to have the ship going a sixty degrees upwards, “but she held, and then some. You need to stretch her legs, Fran! If you don’t test her, she’ll never trust you!”

Fran sees nothing but blue skies ahead, blue skies, and the sun blinding her. “Hang on!” Balthier yells; on this cue she presses her head hard back into her seat as he shoots the ship sideways and upwards at the same time. He then lets go of the throttle completely, the ship twisting sideways and downwards only due to its own weight. The suction in Fran is so hard she feels like screaming, her entire body tingling from the loss of gravity. Balthier might be out of shape for hunting, but he still hasn’t forgotten how to pilot.

The ship is on a straight course downwards and slightly west as Fran is overwhelmed by fear for the sudden sight in front of her: The Bucket is built differently than a fighter, it moves in a way Balthier is not accustomed to - they have drifted much closer to land than he intended. What Fran sees is browns and blacks and dots of green shooting towards her with a horrible velocity, yet everything seems to happen so slow she has time to carefully sense every strand of fear rushing through her. Balthier wastes no time exhaling, shouting or cursing. All Fran hears is the sound of him pulling at the steering stick resolutely and the sound of his foot on the pedal forcing the ship forward. As the bucket screams and turns, Fran’s heart is in her throat. Her head pounds, her stomach turns, then the ship aligns neatly with the sea, slowly drifting along like nothing unusual ever happened.

She looks at Balthier and Balthier looks back, his eyes wide, breath hard; she can’t seem to force herself to yell at him. Instead she chortles involuntarily. As Balthier grins, she regains her senses. “That was not the cleverest of ideas, Balthier”, she mutters. She must do her best not to encourage him to do more of this madness; she must return him to the shore in once piece. She turns away to focus on the horizon, trying her best not to pay attention to how his eyes stay on her for too long.

¨

“I’m sorry for roughing up your day”, Balthier says staring into his cup. “I don’t know what’s gotten into me, Fran. It’s like I’ve been obedient to this lid for years, but it reached the point where I had to let some steam out the boiler to keep from exploding.”

They are safely placed by a corner table on each their wooden chair in the Whitecap, downing their third cup of Madhu. Louis and Gumalu joined them for dinner, Balthier’s face lit up as he relived stories of the old days, Gumalu humming, Louis scoffing. Fran is the only member of Buckaboo left in the tavern, not counting the few studying the bills at the board.

Fran swallows a hiccup. “I can understand. You’ve been doing nothing but duties for years.” She waves for the boy to bring them more. “Do you and Claire ever take time off?”

He scoffs. “Claire thinks the pups need her twentyfour seven. That, or she always has some domestic project going on. Sometimes I have to grab her ears to force her to look at me.” Fran has a sudden Madhu prompted vision of Balthier pulling her own ears for her attention. She snickers. “Well, things have changed. You just need to hang in there, family man. I hear things get easier when the kids are out of the house.”

Balthier snorts. “Yeah, by that time I’ll be what, forty? Can’t say that sounds particularly comforting. Claire probably wants to retire in Archades.” They both nod a thank you to the serving boy as he sets down two fresh mugs of the devilish honey drink. “I like your new garb”, Balthier says to her.

Fran looks down at her black and dark green bodice. “It’s not that different from the last one I wore. I’m surprised you even noticed.” When she looks back at him, he is biting his tongue while grinning, his eyes liquid; Fran throws a grape at him. “I never did anything of value for you, did I”, he says before taking a sip of the fresh mug. “All I did was bring you into trouble and gawk at your legs. I can’t believe you didn’t tire of me much sooner.” Fran leans back in her chair, nursing her mug.

Balthier puts his mug down. “I never wanted to admit to it back then, but you were a far better choice for being captain than I. I claimed to be the leading man - my, you must have laughed yourself silly - quietly, of course - at most of my actions. No wonder you didn’t learn to laugh properly until we parted.”

Fran tilts her head. “True you had a young man’s courage and reckness --” she stumbles over the word, “-- recklessness - but you were also the spice needed in the bland bowl of noodles that was still _Frjn_. Things happened with you around. I would never have found myself with the Princess, freeing Dalmasca to her people, if it was not for you.” She smiles, holding up her mug. “It was a privilege to be your partner.” At that, he smiles warmly, lifting his own mug before drinking.

“Is this what we would be doing?” Balthier leans back and throws a leg up on table, wriggling at the tightness of his trousers. “Hmm?” Fran says, one ear starting to drop to the side as she’s sipping her Madhu. He scratches his nose. “If we were still doing this.”

Fran wears a small smile as she studies her drink. “We wouldn’t.”

Balthier looks at her, expression blank, as if he’s suddenly turned sober. “Right.”

Fran sips her Madhu for the longest time.

Balthier looks at his drink, eyes drowsy. “She and I got together out of necessity. I would not abandon her as my father did me.” It takes Fran a moment to realize who he’s talking about. “If not Claire, it’d probably be some another” - he hiccups - “wench. It’s what all Humes end up doing, eh? Married life. Wonderful, married life.”

“You should teach Serpent some spells”, Fran slurs. At the mention of his daughter’s name, Balther lights up. “When they are old enough, I will teach them _everything_. You should help.” His face stiffens as he comes to his realization. “I’m gonna have to smuggle them out here, though. Or, you’re gonna have to as you have a smuggling ship --”

“It can’t be that bad”, Fran says. “I remember Claire as a... a little rough around the edges” - Balthier grins - “but she adored you beyond anything. You probably were the first person she ever trusted.”

Balthier lifts his mug to his mouth. “Still am.”

“I’m sure she’d make an effort. For you.”

Balthier doesn’t reply. The trousers is making it too uncomfortable for him to sit as he does. He removes the leg from the table to lean an elbow on it instead.

“She barely touches me anymore. I so longed to be touched, Fran.” He says the words with lips parted, eyes shiny, staring at her neck as he runs a hand through his hair. At that, Fran feels something stir in her, something she hasn’t felt since that time in the Strahl when his hand was pressed against the small of her back and hers was feeling the warm skin through his shirt. She wishes his hair was hers, or her hand was his, or both of these options - preferably both, and she wonders what his stubble tastes like --

 _Gods Fran, no_ , she thinks. There is no such thing as a designated partner, no one right person, not to anyone. It was coincidences that brought Balthier to her, coincidences that brought Claire to Balthier, and Balthier is with Claire. _But he is here with you now, on his own free will_ , she thinks before she can push the thought away. _Balthier. Think of Balthier. You wouldn’t want to hurt Balthier._

At that she pulls herself together. “You need to mend this with Claire, Balthier”, she says, voice coarse.

He closes his eyes and shakes his head as to shake a thought out of his head, then he takes a huge sip of his Madhu, eyes still closed as he puts the mug down, drops spilling onto the table. “You’re right”, he says, keeping his eyes shut for several moments. When he opens them, it is as if he’s gazing straight through her. “As always, Fran, you are right.”

He then stands up, unsteady. As he passes her, he presses a hand down on her shoulder.

“Enjoy your hunters and buckets”, he slurs, then he stumbles out of the tavern.

¨

About the same time a year later, she receives a postcard from Balthier. She notices from first glance it has not been written especially for her - it seems to be one of those generic ones sent out in fifty or so similar copies.

Fran turns it over, her suspicions confirmed. “We are pleased to announce the birth of a healthy daughter. We have named her Fira. Thank you for your kind wishes throughout the preparations for her arrival. Claire and Balthier.”

Fran snorts. _So at least they made up for one night_ , she thinks, then puts the postcard down in the same pile as the the Clans of Ivalice newsletter and _Weapons Weekly_ , which she never reads.

 


	7. Legacy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long chapter is very long, but I did not know how to split it without losing its theme.
> 
> Warning; descriptions of violence in this chapter. I considered bumping the rating to M but I think it's fine.

 

Fran is an animal of the sky, _in_ the sky, gliding with the current of the wind, overlooking the dark blue, wonderful, endless sea spread out in front of her. The sun on her face warms her skin, the breeze against her body smelling of spices from a faraway land. She stretches her arms, putting her hands together, diving towards the surface, white clouds of the sea swirling and changing as she shoots foam. She laughs.

“What the hell are you doing?”

Fran watches the sea and foam evaporate in front of her just as the smoke of her second or perhaps fifth pipe. She mutters displeased as her wonderful sea is replaced by the materializing shape of Louis staring down at her.

“What does it look like, I am enjoying some fine leaf”, she slurs. Her vision is still clouded as she sits up on the little Jaharian rug she has been resting on for hours. The sun has moved, the small tent behind her no longer providing coverage from its strong rays.

“This explains your skin having tanned so much recently”, Louis says as dryly as her throat feels. “You should be careful you don’t burn.” Fran grins, contemplating her dark skin. Logic was never his strongest side.

“My question in return”, Fran says. When Louis’ face resembles a question mark, she moans. Smarts was never his strongest side either. “What the hell are _you_ doing?” She reaches for her water skin. “And here.”

“Taking a holiday. Doing nothing of worth for weeks”, Louis says as Fran gulps down half the content of the skin. He sits down inside her tent, then pulls out a piece of paper and holds it out for her. She glares at him for a moment, then takes it.

She has to concentrate to focus well enough to read the words. “A bill with an unsigned petitioner.” She holds out the bill for him to take back. She thought Louis to know her well enough to know her answer to queries such as these by now. “No thanks.”

“Fran”, he says, not leaning in to take the bill. “This piece of paper arrived by courier. Not by post, not by its petitioner, not by someone passing by as a favour for someone. By courier. This mark reeks of gil.”

“And I take it you all decided in unison who would get the honours by drawing chops?”

Louis grins. “I was alone in the Whitecap when the note was stuck on the board. Tough luck for the other hunters.”

“And then you travelled all the way to Ozmone to fetch me.”

“This bill”, he says, nodding towards the paper in her hand, “has ‘experienced hunters’ written all over it, Fran. This one is for me, you and Gumalu.” _In that order_ , Fran thinks.

“Gumalu isn’t here”, she says. “He left several days ago to venture into Jagd for search of a treasure.” Louis looks pleased by this information. “I guess it is just you and me, then.”

Fran lays down on the rug, the sand warm and smooth beneath it. She’s never taken unsigned hunts before. Removing the bill from the board signifies some sort of attachment to the hunt, as taking down the note means making it unavailable to others. She always prefers knowing for whom she is doing the job before accepting. She has yet to grow so jaded or poor she will do anything for gil.

Then again: She has been in the Jahara area for weeks now, spending time with the Garif tribe here, going hunting with its younger members. Hunting, in which implies they trek across the plains, find a decent spot to rest, then share a pipe while looking for anything of interest to kill. They rarely take anything home.

While they scout for prey, she tries teaching them the ‘best animal in the sky’ game: Spotting animal shapes in the clouds above their heads, but they’re never as good at it as the man who invented it ages ago. It’s been four years since Balthier bursted in through the door of the Whitecap. Since then, her days have been filled with the regular hunt or smuggling run. During the nights, Fran sits crosslegged drinking the Madhu from the very bottom of the barrel, swearing like a pirate of the sea and not of the sky. The Garif of Jahara and the pirates of Balfonheim are fond of Fran. She can not clearly see why; the stories she tells are lengthy and old, yet her audience always listen with interest. “Do the one of King Raminas’ wedding!” they shout. “Tell us more about Eruyt!” or “tell us again of how you smuggled the Green Snake Eye out of that Archadian mansion!” _Maybe you should all go make new stories instead of listening to me tell old ones_ , she tries telling them, but they wave her off with one hand, cups of Madhu in the other.

This is one of many things having Fran grown restless. The sheet of paper in Louis’ hands presents an opportunity. Maybe it’s time she dived head first into something for a change.

¨

Bill curled up in her pouch, the two of them near the coordinates in the South East area of Archades, which the piece of paper names as the meetup point. They are about an hour early, yet as they land the Bucket, a Hume teen with a chocobo is already waiting on the steppe.

“The hunters, I gather?” he says. “Come with me. We’ll be walking for a while.”

The tan, brown haired boy leads his chocobo through many clicks of gold and green, the hard soil sparsely dotted with dry bushes and palm trees. As they near the sea, the terrain grows slightly rougher, rocks and cliffs breaking up the coastline. Their guide share no information as to where they are going. As they exit a crevice of tall, red rocks, Fran knows why he’s kept quiet. He is not taking them to the mark, but the petitioner. The mansion in the closed off hillside facing the sea is grand, painted in a light peach colour, lined with white and gold and marble. Even for only seeing the front of it, Fran can tell it is an impressive piece of structure.

Louis whistles. Fran frowns.

“I would rather you reveal at least one clue as to who we are meeting before we go any closer”, she says to the boy. Louis turns to protest.

“Very well”, their guide nods. “You are looking at the estate of my employer, Gair Hostegar. He wants to see the hunters personally before assigning the mission.”

“Mission”, Fran says. “Is this not a hunt?”

“In some ways, yes. In others, not”, he mumbles, then continues walking. When Fran makes no sign to follow, Louis throws an arm out. “Fran, look at this place! Think of the gil! I did not come all this way to throw it away because of a strand of pointless doubt.”

Fran grimaces. _Damn Humes and their treasures._ One smell of it and their wit leaks out their ears. Freedom is the biggest treasure there is, Fran thinks, yet again she is finding herself in the company of a Hume male whose eyes are blended by the imagery of gold. Louis stops his gesturing then, remembering which way Fran needs to be rubbed if he is to stand a chance of convincing her. “At least let us hear what he has to say. This can not hurt.”

Fran thinks of Balfonheim, of sitting on a barrell smelling of spirits, telling the same stories over and over again for the rest of her life. “Fine”, she sighs.

¨

The path leading up to the main gate is wide enough to fit two meeting carriages, its sides decorated with palm trees originating from other corners of Archades. As they near the gate, the road splits, one branch leading around the corner of the lower part of the building, the other leading straight forward, changing into a set of stairs neatly decorated in glinting, white stones. A Seeq is waiting for them, taking the chocobo, leading it down the first road to some kind of stalls and service entry.

The three of them then head for the stairs. They are not steep, Fran takes at least two of its steps for each hers. The main gate is guarded by an armoured Seeq opening for them without a word. As the gate slams shut behind them, Fran feels uneasy. The times she’s previously spent inside similar estates has never been for honest purposes. Stepping inside the gate for a job somehow makes her feel dirty.

On their way to the main entrance they pass more riches than Fran has ever seen gathered in one place: Stone statues, crystals, exotic plants and pottery, several fountains, all tended to by servants who quietly draw back as they pass. Entering the palace itself, they find themselves in a hall, glass for ceiling, a huge statue in the center of what appears to be a Hume like goddess, surrounded by six Hume children and a baby chocobo. It is surrounded by a fountain with koi fish and colourful sea plants.

After passing a long hall decorated in marble, a particularly beautiful Viera draped in black velvet greets them. “He is expecting you. Please go on in”, she says, her accent still carrying all the traits of a Vieran one, yet still sounding constructed. Fran can not tell by her age if this Viera more likely left the wood before Fran or after, and neither does the beauty give off the impression of having the same wonders regarding Fran, who knows this needn’t imply indifference: This Viera is most likely a master of guarding secrets.

Gair Hostegar is standing by the mahogany desk in his huge library as they enter. Daylight shine in through the large windows covering the entire of one wall, the opposite decorated with huge paintings of men and scenery, shelves of books covering the last two. The floor is covered in one, giant woven dark red rug.

“Welcome”, he says, the Viera offering them a refreshment in tall crystal glasses. At his nod, she leaves the room. He is a Hume male in his sixties, hair well greyed, his frame not large as would be expected in a wealthy Archadian. He’s wearing a crimson and red cape lined with golden threads, beneath it an embroidered shirt, half of it covered with what appears to be a silk woven vest. He removes his spectacles as Louis tries the exotic fruit juice.

“Thank you. This is a most excellent drink”, Louis says. Fran leaves hers untouched. Gair Hostegar smiles and gestures for them to sit down, himself taking a seat behind his desk. “As my guide may have told you or not, I am Gair Hostegar of House Hostegar. Who do I have the pleasure of entertaining this fine morning?”

“Louis Marisol, Sir. My partner here is Fran.”

Gair Hostegar nods, folding his hands. “I presume you have the bill?”

Fran takes the piece of paper out of her well worn pouch, walks over to his desk and holds his out. He smiles at her as he accepts the bill. “My thanks.”

“So”, he says as Fran sits down. “I am sure you assumed Balfonheim to be one of many boards to which this bill was posted, as you arrived so early.”

Fran and Louis both remain motionless; Fran has told him to show no reactions.

“The truth is, I wanted members from Clan Buckaboo for this. Balfonheim is the port with the biggest ears. You might have the knowledge and the skills needed for this mission.”

When he speaks no further, Fran does. “Excuse my asking, but for what is it you are in need of our services?”

He smiles. “Fran. The same Viera named Fran who helped Ashelia B’Nargin Dalmasca reclaim her kingdom, I presume?”

Fran’s face is stone.

“Your loyalties is known to be fleeting, my dear; this I know. But you always finish the job you start, which is all I need to know.” He leans back. “I will always respect a fighter who looks after herself while making it look like a favour. It shows cunning. Gained a good price for helping the Queen, did you?”

“I gained three peaceful kingdoms in which to venture as I please”, Fran replies coolly. Her ears pick up Louis’ quickened heartbeat.

Gair Hostegar grins. “You’re a woman to my taste.”

He smooths the bill out on his desk. "Someone has been hindering my business in a major part of South and South-East Archades by delaying and mixing up work orders. I don't get sent the number of workers as contracted, nor the supplies. I spend too much time coordinating this myself because of the mix ups, and now I have grown tired of it. I want this situation sorted.” He leans back in his chair. “I need someone to figure out who is making this mess, and prevent it from happening."

Louis shifts his weight. “Excuse me, good Sir, but - bills posted on Clan boards are always specifically monster marks. This sounds more like a detective job - infiltration even.”

Gair Hastegar folds his hands and leans forward on the desk. "Just think of it as this: The mark is not a monster. It is a man.” He looks at Fran. “Or a woman. Or several."

The room is quiet for moments. Fran is the first to speak. “If you did your research on the members of Buckaboo, you will know I am not a hiresword. Never has been and never will I be”, she says.

Louis looks at her, then back at Gair Hastegar, holding his silence.

“The task does not have to imply complete elimination”, Gair Hastegar says. “The key part of the mission is that the people responsible are stopped. How you choose to do so, is up to you.”

“Do you have any information at all?” Louis asks before Fran has the chance to decline. “The little I know, is the mix up happens between the main contractor negotiators between Archades and Dalmasca, and the smaller contractors in this area. Exactly where the line cuts, I do not know.”

Fran’s ear twitch.

“But, as I said, I can tell you nothing further. I need help from someone with a better chance of finding the ones responsible.”

“We’ll take the job”, Fran says, solemnity in her eyes. Louis fails to follow her previous orders and leaps with surprise.

¨

“Why did you agree to the job?” Louis asks as their guide has dropped them off at the edge of the estate, having taken a different route this time, passing several scenes of quarries filled with working Seeq.

When Fran does not answer, he asks again. She does not answer, but instead says “I need a favour from you, Louis.”

“Anything”, he says a second too soon.

“I need you to let me investigate this alone. I will ask for your help when I need it.

“No”, he answers first, but as Fran halts to stare down at him, he grimaces. “Why?”

“I can not tell you at this moment.” She continues walking.

“But you will investigate?”

“I will make this my first priority, don’t worry”, Fran says, wondering if it really is her Balthier who has found something new to keep his boiler from exploding.

¨

Fran considers calling, she considers writing, she considers mailing, but in the end decides the only way to approach Balthier is to show up on his doorstep. She does owe him one after all.

When she arrives on the open patch near Balthier’s house the next morning, she walks the few hundred yards up to the house. It has been repainted and the fence in the back now reaches around one side of the house, no longer holding goats, but a couple of small chocobos. It is a nice day, the sun peeking out behind swipes of clouds, its rays tickling the trees providing the chocobos with shade. Fran halts, breathing in the fresh smell of grass as she watches the golden birds scratching each others feathers with their beaks.

She hears someone approaching between the trees. Second later a girl with brown, straight hair and eyes of green and grey comes out of the line of trees. Her thin figure is covered in a long, black robe held together with a green belt, a big bag hung over her shoulder. She appears to be deep in thought, not noticing Fran on the other side of the yard. When she finally spots Fran, she halts immediately, her eyes swiftly sweeping down and up Fran’s legs before finding her face, her lips drawn tight together, not uttering a word.

Fran smiles. “Serpent, I presume?” The girl nods slowly. “You might not remember me, but I’m Fran, an old friend of your parents.”

“Hi”, Serpent says very softly in a girly voice belonging to a twelve and a half year old.

“Could you do me a favour, Serpent?” The girl nods. “Could you see if one of your parents is at home, and let them know I am here?” Serpent nods again and quickly heads for the house, but before she’s reached the front door of the house, it opens.

For not having seen her in ten years, Fran recognizes Claire immediately. She has aged, but is still a very attractive woman, her blonde hair cropped by the neck as it was sixteen years ago when she first set foot in the Whitecap. “Good morning, Fran”, she says casually, the lack of surprise in her tone of voice puzzling Fran. “Good morning”, Fran repeats. Claire holds the door open for her. “Come in.”

As Fran walks up to the door, she notices the doormat laid out in front of her, reading “please wipe your feet”. She does her best with her awkward stilettoed Vieran feet. When she passes through the door, she has to tilt her ears forward. Serpent, having entered before her, marvels at the sight, quickly pulling her eyes away when Fran seeks hers.

The interiors of the house hasn’t changed much in ten years, it is still a mix of Dalmascan woodcraft and Archadian furniture, appearing tidy and clean, as if they’ve been expecting visitors. Claire leads Fran through the house towards a room in the corner of the first floor. It appears to be Balthier’s current office, one wall covered in books, rolled up maps flung in a corner along with a globe, toy chocobos in the other. Balthier is sitting by his desk, eagerly scribbling on a piece of paper. His skin has aged further, his age now only lacking two years to forty. But his eyes are the same; his colour, his smile, his face, save for his nose holding up a pair of reading glasses.

“I’ll get Snow,” Claire mutters, closing the door behind her.

Balthier puts down his pen and takes off his spectacles, leaning back in his chair. “Fran.”

Fran cocks an eyebrow. “Balthier.”

There’s a brief pause as neither of them speak, curiously studying the changes on each other’s features.

Balthier starts clearing the mid part of his desk for papers. “I take it you’ve received my letter?”

Fran frowns. “Letter?”

He stops restocking the paper and looks at her. “The letter I sent you three weeks ago. It should have arrived in Balfonheim by now.”

“Did you write your name on the back?”

“I did”, he replies. “Why?”

 _Louis_ , Fran thinks. She wonders when he’d planned on giving it to her. The man has his own quirks; it appears he can only stay truthful to her regarding one thing at a time.

“Nevermind. What was in your letter?”

“I need a favour”, Balthier says.

 _What a pleasant coincidence_ , Fran thinks.

¨

About half an hour later they exit the house. “Do you like my birds?” Balthier says as he scratches one pleased chocobo under its chin. “They’re not old enough to ride, but I had planned on letting Serpent break them in when the time comes.”

Fran hears the footsteps of a man treading carefully through grass long before she turns to the shape halting a few yards away from her. Her ears twitch in surprise. The fifteen year old boy in front of her is strikingly similar to his sire. His hair is lighter than Balthier’s and longer as teens often wears it, his build a lot slimmer as he still has much growing to do, however the height is there already. He glares at Fran, saying nothing.

 _My son has grown to be a stubborn bastard_ , Balthier’s words were. _He is no good with words nor logics so he does poorly in school, even for being no less bright than his fellow students. He spends his energy in all the wrong places. I can’t deal with him anymore, Fran, Gods I have tried, but every time I try to be around him, he shatters my temper, and Claire is too soft as only a mother can be. He needs someone unbiased to be honest with him. And give us honest feedback regarding his spirit._

Fran finds it no strange the boy would shatter Balthier's temper, as chances are he has inherited it from his father.

Balthier’s voice tightens as he leans an arm on the fence. “Snow. Remember the hunter I told you about?” The boy shows no reaction. “Well, here she is.” He smiles warmly at Fran. “Snow, meet Fran.” As he finishes his introduction, Claire shows up from around the corner of the house, sighing. “There you are.”

The kid looks at Fran for a short moment, then turns to his father. “You made it sound like you had invited one of the hunters from Centurio!” he says, clearly disappointed. Fran flicks an ear. The boy appears to have inherited the looks from his father, but his spirit reminds Fran of his mother in her younger days. Was it not for Fran smelling the stress and self doubt on him, his words might have made her feel different about them. Plus, underestimation has more than often worked to her advantage than the opposite.

One thing that does leave her feeling quite befuddled, on the other hand, is how little Balthier appears to have told his children about her. It is as if she never existed.

Claire sighs at her son’s manners. “Snow”, Balthier says, teeth clenched, and at that the boy pulls himself slightly together. “Fran is one of my oldest friends, with eons of experience with fighting and hunting, amongst other things. You wanted to learn from the best, so I brought you the best. You will obey her, and you will learn from her.”

When Snow again looks at Fran, he stares, and it is not a stare of appreciation, even for his eyes not lingering on her ears nor her red eyes. It is a want for of dominance. The boy is clearly out to test every line drawn for him.

Fran watches him watch her, stoic. As he refuses to pull his keen eyes away from her, she puts a hand to her waist. “If you would look at me as a man, you will act as one.” Claire opens her mouth, but before she has the chance to speak, Fran does. “Get your bow.”

Snow glares at her, then turns slowly for the shed to get his gear. “Strange way for a hunter to dress”, he mumbles, still unfamiliar with the benefits of Fran’s ears. “It is a common misconception that my garb affects my aim”, Fran speaks up.

Snow halts in surprise. When he turns to her, his eyes are flamed. “It still might affect the aim of others”, he says, sly. “But I guess it’s all part of your strategy.” “Snow!” Claire gasps. Balthier remains quiet, even for clearly having problems restraining himself; the fence wavering slightly under his grip.

Fran’s eyes narrow so slightly only Balthier recognizes the change in her expression. “If they are so easily distracted, they certainly stand no chance with neither foe nor beast. Was this a test, as you yourself are suggesting, you just failed it.” Her ears flick. Snow’s mouth remains shut. _This look suits you much better_ , Fran thinks.

¨

“I don’t know why they’re making you do this”, Snow says as they’re walking through the small woodlands, trees no more than three meters tall. His mask of disregard hides his frustration, but Fran can tell he is unhappy. “According to their own words, they think you need both discipline and something to keep your head busy, and this is the activity they felt filled both needs.”

He laughs a very boyish, self confident laugh. “Ha! You would reveal their words to me this easy? Not a master strategist, are you, Viera.”

“Fran”, she corrects him. “And I don’t see a reason this information should be hidden from you.”

He grins. “Fran.”

She can tell he is studying the bow on her back, and the engravings on her bodice beneath it. “So, Fran. How old are you?”

“Many years ago, a boy close to your age asked me the same thing.”

He waits for a continuation. “Well?” he says when she does not provide him with one.

“A boy once asked me the same thing. Did my story confuse you?”

“Are you trying to be witty?”

“Are you trying to make me believe you haven’t realized I am not going to answer your question?”

He grins. “That old, huh.”

Fran smiles. “And then some.”

He keeps quiet for the rest of their walk. When they reach an open area, Fran has them unpack their gear, going through the basics of handling, aim and planning. The parts he already knows he tells her loudly she doesn’t have to waste breath on sharing, which she does anyway, while at the parts he doesn’t know he listens with half an ear.

Hume ears are small.

“Questions?” she says after completing her lesson. Snow chuckles. “I already asked you one, which you did not answer. I think I’ll hold my tongue.”

 _Too clever for his own good_ , Fran thinks. _Just like someone I know_.

¨

When Snow loses the trail the third time, he no longer laughs it off with jokes trying to impress her; he grows frustrated. Fran watches him as he stands a few yards ahead her, his weight on one leg, knuckles placed on his hips. She lets him take his time.

Finally he turns to Fran. To her satisfaction, he does not yell, or leave, or blame her for picking a location too difficult to keep track of the beast they are chasing, but he does, however, blame the prey. “That damn creature is too light footed! What are we chasing him for, anyway? He probably barely has meat on him!” When Fran remains calm, he throws his arms in the air. “Fine. Fran, help me out, or we’ll be stuck out here all day.”

She remains still. Her eyes shine. His glow back at her, stubborn.

“Please”, he hisses between clenched teeth.

Fran hums, then starts walking in the right direction. Snow mumbles something about animals knowing where other animals might go, but as he remembers how well her animal-resembling ears work, he quickly holds his tongue.

¨

When they reach the opening in the trees where the ground is covered in the Wild Cockatrice's favourite nuts, Snow’s ears are sharpened, his body language changed. On her signal, they lean down behind the rocks. When Fran makes no signal as to what he is to do next, he turns to her. “Now we wait”, she whispers.

This is a lesson of patience, a skill Balthier has put forward as being non existent in Snow. But as they lay in cover, the shadow of the nearest tree sliding further and further down their backs, Fran has confirmed to her what she already suspected: Snow is neither impatient nor heartless. He is a boy with far too many thoughts in his head, and impatient, even for a man so young, for having far too much in his life undone. Fran finds it puzzling how Balthier fails to recognize himself in the boy, when there is clearly so much of him in his kid. Humes has a fascinating ability to forget their own youth; the memory of Fran’s has faded as well, but hers happened so long ago. Balthier was a boy no more than twenty and some years ago. Fran suspects parents don’t like being reminded of their own youth and its mistakes.

There's leaves ruffling, then the Cockatrice appears, stomping around on the ground. Snow nudges her shoulder with his hand, not taking his eyes away from the prey. Fran slides his crossbow into his hand. In complete silence, Snow places the bow in front of him, taking the bolt Fran has found for him, very carefully loading it up.

His body is spent, completely focused as he aims, but Fran can tell he is anxious, nervous. He does not want to miss this shot, even for missing being no foretelling for a coming career of many shots. But Snow is young, and for him, this shot means everything.

When he misses, he shouts his courses to the winds. “Lets go after him!” When Fran shakes her head, he finally loses his temper. “Damn you, I thought the point was to kill some beasts! What the hell are we doing lurking out here behind rocks, hiding like lizards?”

Fran stands up. “To learn how to shoot, and to not miss our beat.”

“I’ll show them my beat”, he yells. “Give me your sword and I’ll show them.”

“I am not handing over my sword, Snow.”

“Why, scared I might hurt you?” The anger is painted across his face.

Fran smirks. “You’d be welcome to try, but that would be a waste of time.”

“Really.”

Fran does not move.

“Really, Fran. You would stand there demonstrating your superiority without even giving me the honour to try. That’s very noble of you.”

Fran tilts her head. “I never claimed to be generous, Snow. If you had an idea I was, I am not the one to blame.”

“All women are generous!” he yells. “If not, they would only seek to ridicule me. I thought you were helping me!”

“I am, but you’re obviously refusing to accept my help.”

“Lend me your sword, that’s all the help I need.”

“No.”

At that he hisses, swearing the most unholy curses a Dalmascan boy his age knows at her, then stomps off.

¨

Fran tracks him for about half an hour until she sees him at the bottom of a small valley, standing by a small brook, contemplating a Sawjaw on the other side. She sits down behind a tree to watch.

He fidgets, then pulls out his bow. On such short range, the bolt hits the Sawjaw in the neck. The beast roars and heads through the river for its attacker. Snow remains still, reloads, shoots again; this time his aim is more off, hitting the fur-clad four-feet in the ribs. The third time he reloads, his hands work clumsily, taking him much longer to get the ammunition into place. The bolt is another hit in the neck. The beast pauses its climb out of the brook.

Snow stands up, body language signaling he is pleased, taking his time reloading a fourth when the Sawjaw screams an alien cry, then grows in size along with its teeth and claws. At that sight, Snow stumbles backwards.

Fran does nothing but watch.

Snow now enters the loop of insanity: He keeps doing the same thing over and over again, expecting different results. Fran knows he will soon be running out of bolts. She can hear him growing frustrated, but he does not yet fear for his life, so she waits.

When he has fired his final bolt and missed, Fran stands up. He is quite agile, he manages to keep the beast on arms length for quite some time. Fran knows he is only stalling, not wanting to do what he must: To flee the scene. When he finally comes to this conclusion, he is draining for energy, and as Fran follows him from her ledge, after a few clicks, he stumbles. Fran hears his first sound of distress, a sound bred in his lungs.

They go another few clicks, the beast still refusing to give up. Snow is not properly done for until he’s nearing the edge of a cliff, the rocks on the other side of the path closing in to create a narrow trap. Fran follows from a distance, watching as the path turns downwards and straight into what Fran smells, and already knows, to be the resting place of a smaller Ring Wyrm.

Snow halts when he sees it, then remembers the Sawjaw nipping at his heels, and presses forward. Fran can smell the fear on him as the Wyrm stands up from its slumber to contemplate the intruder. She crouches down near the wall. _Now let’s see if you’ve got any tricks up your sleeve._

Snow tries going around the Wyrm, but the beast is fond of the company, and blocks his path. The Sawjaw halts in sight of the Wyrm, enraged, running on adrenaline for the bolts sticking into its body, eating at its flesh for the last half an hour of running. Snow knows no magick, has no weapon, and has ran long enough to feel the strain. To survive, he needs to come up with something new.

“Fran!” he yells, his voice echoing off the stone walls. He angles his head upwards. “Fran!”

But Fran does not move. Not yet.

Snow looks at the Sawjaw, looks at the Wyrm, and seems to realize how this is not a battle of two against one: It is a battle _between two for whichever_. Like Dalmasca between Rozarria and Archades, even this option may have a deadly outcome, but he must take a risk. Like Dalmasca, he is the only one of the three wanting to stay clear of the conflict. And unlike Dalmasca, he can move.

He moves in towards the Wyrm. As it lashes against him, Snow uses his very last of energy to escape its claws and teeth. As he passes the Sawjaw and it bolts for him, the Wyrm forgets its smaller prey and decides it will rather have fun with its other, and so the two beasts lunge together, Snow running back the direction from which he came - not further into the passageway, as he has finally learned how running through places of unfamiliarity might cause him more trouble than good.

When he jogs out of the passage and spots Fran, he freezes. For moments, he says nothing. His expression is blank, unreadable - a mix of anger, fear, exhaustion - but most of all, surprise.

“You bit off more than you could chew”, Fran says. “You did not know the area, you didn’t have sufficient weaponry, and you left your hunting companion for insignificant reasons.”

Snow glares at her, but he does not yell. “But as I was about to pull my arrow, you found a way to get out of the situation, and didn’t venture headlessly further into territory you don’t know.” She cocks her head. “It seems you learned that lesson as you ran, which means you are adapting. Overall, I’m impressed.”

Snow laughs, breathless. “My parents were expecting me to have lessons, not for me to go for a jog and then be seconds from having my head smashed in by a Wyrm.”

“Oh”, Fran says. “But this was indeed your first lesson: To know what is at risk.” Snow glares at her. “Though this was the easier of the two lessons relating to it. Next time, I’m going to put _myself_ out there, maybe Sapped and with no weapons, and then you’ll know what _real_ risk is.” She winks before turning to walk back, the Wyrm finally taking mercy on the Sawjaw.

Snow follows without a word.

¨

Not far from Snow’s home, they sit in the soft grass, fitting feathers from a fresh Wild Cockatrice into their bows. Snow had one more chance to practice his targeting, and for his arm slightly shaking from exhaustion: This time, he didn’t miss, the hit still inadequate as it hit the bird in its hind leg. He did not yell, did not curse, but as his father when not wasting a moment putting his foot on the pedal of the Bucket the last time him and Fran flew, he quickly fired another. When it still didn’t kill, the bird about to slip away, wounded, he asked Fran to take it out. _Please_.

This is the last thing they’ll do before returning to the house. It has been a long day, yet Snow doesn’t appear to be eager going home. He sits in the grass, strangeling yawns, smelling of dried up sweat, but no longer of stress.

“What would you most like to do?” Fran asks. “To fill your days.”

He shrugs. “Weapons apprentice, I guess.”

“Like your mother used to be?”

“Anything but pushing paper like my father.”

Fran snickers. “I can relate.”

He hums at that. When he stays quiet for several minutes, Fran speaks. “So why don’t you?”

“What?”

“Pay attention. Become a weapon’s apprentice?”

He pauses. “I don’t think they’d let me.”

“Claire? Balthier?”

“No, Serpent and Fira. My parents, who else.”

“Balthier would only deny you if he didn’t think you’d earned it.” She holds up her arrow, neatly decorated with the feathers. “He’s learned to listen to my advice.”

At that, Snow stills his hands, as if seeing a ray of hope. Then he remembers. “My mother would still say I have to wait until I’m at least eighteen.”

“There’s no reason you shouldn’t go soon. You’ll be ready.”

His face looks pained then, the first open and honest emotion of weakness he’s revealed to her. “She won’t let me.” His hands works briskly with the feathers then, uncaring. “Don’t”, Fran warns him. He sighs.

“Sometimes the only person who knows your own good is yourself”, Fran says to comfort, immediately regretting her words. She can’t tell him to act without his mother’s consent, advising him as she would live herself, that is not what she is here for.

Snow looks at her in surprise. “You think I should go without permission?”

Fran finds her forehead is warm. “It wouldn’t be a wise move. You would need their support for the first couple of years”, she says, focusing on her hands. But Snow has seen through her disguise.

“Wouldn’t mother like to know the advice you’re giving me”, he says, his eyes challenging her. Fran does not return his stare, she keeps hers fixated on her arrow.

Snow turns back to look at his work. He clears his throat. “I like you, Fran. You’re not like the other adults.”

¨

“You needn't worry about your son”, Fran tells Claire and Balthier as the three of them are sharing a bottle of Dalmascan wine in Balthier’s office following dinner, during which Fran had the pleasure of being introduced to Balthier’s youngest daughter. Fira, a little over four, a quiet, observant girl, grey eyes watching Fran’s every move, putting more food into her already full mouth, having Claire repeatedly tell her to remember to swallow.

“He will be all right. But”, she says, looking at Claire, her being be the parent to persuade, “he is restless. He needs to find something of a greater purpose. I think he is ready to be tossed at sea.”

Balthier frowns at Fran’s untimely use of sea pirate terms. A vision of one’s son being flung to the ocean is no nice imagery to put into a mother’s head. Some things Fran is yet to learn, however he has to credit her for not using sky pirate terms instead.

“...what are you suggesting?” Claire says, her voice growing cold.

“I think you should let him go to Rabanastre and pursue your old career.”

Claire’s eyes widen. To Rabanastre? _Alone?_ He is _fifteen_ , Fran! Have you lost your mind?”

“Quite often, I am told”, she says and looks over at Balthier, which is a move even more unwise than her suggestion of throwing Claire’s children to the sea. Claire makes a very feminine sound of disapproval, the type that has left Fran feeling strangely uncomfortable many times before. Claire puts her glass on Balthier’s desk and stands up. “There will be no stationing of my son in the biggest city in Dalmasca, Fran. But I guess this is the sort of advice you would expect from someone who’s never had children.” She heads for the door, grabbing the handle. “I thank you for taking your time with my son, and I will be grateful for every hour you decide to train him further. Please excuse me, I have a headache. If I am not here when you leave, I wish you a pleasant journey home.”

When the door closes a little louder than necessary, Fran does not know whether to feel bad for her own choice of words, or insulted. She looks over at Balthier, who rubs his forehead, eyes closed.

“I only spoke what I concluded to be the best for the boy”, she says.

“I know Fran, I know.” He exhales, opening his eyes. “It’s not Snow, nor I who are likely to find this idea insane. Was Snow twenty-five, we might be having this exact same conversation.” He smiles a thin smile. Fran wonders if there is such a thing as a parent loving their child too much.

“He is not just Claire’s son, is he?” she asks softly. Balthier does not reply. “I don’t remember you as this passive”, Fran says then. She expects him to scold her, or at least show his disapproval. But Balthier only presents her with an empty stare. “Some bills you have to leave at the board, Fran.” He samples his wine deeply. “At one thing, Claire is right”, he says when he’s surfaced. “This is probably hard to understand for someone who’s never experienced the challenges of parenting.”

“He is the same age you were when you started training for a Judge”, Fran says simply.

“It is different with Snow.”

Fran shakes her head. “I have in my adult years seen you both as teenagers, and believe me, it is not.”

Balthier’s expression is blank, mechanic. When he speaks, his voice is monotonic, too many years of contract negotiation and fathering on his back. “The decision is made, Fran. Snow stays here until he is eighteen. At least.”

Fran feels sorry for Claire for not having the courage to let her son go, for Balthier for not allowing his son the same opportunity for self learned lessons as he once gifted himself with, and also for appearing so careless, when he used to be so passionate about anything. But most of all she feels sorry for Snow.

“So, are you going to tell me what you came for?” He asks, picking up the bottle, gesturing for a refill. Fran holds out her glass. “It’s related to your work”, she says. Balthier looks at her curiously as he pours. “You haven’t by any chance been doing your part to help create a bit of distraction over in South East Archades of late?”

Balthier frowns, filling his own glass. “Not that I can recall, no.”

Fran takes a sip of her wine as she continues watching him, but it is clear as day he tells no lie. She doesn’t know whether to feel glad or disappointed.

“What is this all about?” he asks slowly, not able to hide his interest.

She sighs. “I’m supposed to hunt down a contractor who’s been making life hard for an Archadian bull.”

“You’re working for rich Archadians now?” She expects him to grimace with those words, but his face is coloured with wonder rather than contempt.

“Not for. Against.” She rises from her chair, studying the books in his bookshelf. “I need to find the people responsible.”

“And then what?”

“‘And then what?’ Have you forgotten who we once were, Balthier? I need to warn them, then find a plausible explanation for both the stall and the confusion. I need information.”

He hums. “You need information.”

“On your suppliers and third parties.”

“That could cost me my job, Fran.”

She turn, staring.

“My job, thus my house, my wife, my children. All of which and whom is now my life.” His eyes are stubborn. “I am not about to do that.”

When she does nothing but stare, he adds, sounding stubborn, malicious even, a sarcastic pride bred in him over years: “Not even for you.”

“You know as well as me you wouldn’t be doing this for me.”

He holds his tongue then, suiting him much better than his childish spite.

¨

When she is set to leave early the next day, Snow is still sleeping. “You wore him out,” Balthier snorts as he walks with her to her ship. He couldn’t persuade her to stay for breakfast; Fran at this point sees her role with the Lhusu/Bunansa family first and foremost as an aid for Snow. He is the one who needs her the most, or even need her at all: Balthier almost seems relieved Fran is leaving.

“Thank you” he says as she enters her ship. “I know we used to be something different once… that my ideas and loyalties have changed. Sometimes I think my run from Archadia was in vain, it seems to pull me back in no matter what I do.” His smile is crooked. “I wish it _was_ me being responsible for making life hard for the fat and rich. Instead, I am becoming one.”

Fran smiles. “You are not fat, Balthier. You can still fit into those trousers, right?”

Balthier smirks, his eyes yet looking as if he's admitted defeat. “I should probably hand them over to Snow already.”

“You still have much further to go until it needs to come to that”, Fran says, her face so straight even Balthier is unable to read it, his mouth left half open. With those words and a chuckle, she climbs into her bucket and is off.

¨

It is still early when she docks in the private bays of Balfonheim. She heads down the narrow stone alleys for her home, the sun still so low the streets are dark and moist from the night.

Balfonheim has been Fran’s home for years now, a haven, she is not used to keeping her guard up. When the dart of Immobilize strikes her neck, she drops her belongings, puzzled. The next moment her magick is completely drained, all happening so fast she barely has time to worry.

She tries listening for whoever is responsible for this ambush, a lot harder with ears unable to move. The footsteps behind her are so light she only hears when they are a few yards behind her. The rope placed swiftly around her neck burns and means business. Fran knows she is in trouble, more than she has been in a long time. This is a quality hit. Regular burglars or robbers are never this skillful with disarming. Whoever this is means to take her life, insisting on eliminating every chance of failure. Her only hope is for someone to come her way before all air is drained out of her shell, giving her a minute at the most.

It is the strangest of feelings. The stone bricks in the alley, the dots of dried grass, the empty barrel tossed aside by the wall. She watches them, stomped, then panic sets in as she realizes that this might be it, this is how she will die. Her mind is void from one thought, one name. _Balthier_ , she thinks, the image of his spirit clear in her mind as her head is starting to throb with pain.

Then out of nowhere she hears what sounds like a bolt hitting hard armour, followed by the sigh of breath going out of someone’s lungs. The rope loosens, a bottle smashing by her feet, the scent of Remedy filling her nostrils. She throws herself forward, her neck aching, rolling on the ground as she grabs her one-hand sword, crouching, ready, as the armoured Bangaa lashes towards her, his mouth open, eyes crazed. _Assassin_ , she thinks, someone either too jaded or too poor; she hopes this one is the latter of the two. He tries debuffing her again, but the minute it hits, someone is there with another Remedy; Fran is too preoccupied making her brain work from the lack of oxygen to smell out the form of whoever is helping her.

She parries the Bangaa’s blade, her magick returning just enough to increase her speed. She finds she is furious at this murderer, and for whoever sent him her way. She cuts him, hard, aiming for his muscles and any bleeding vein to still him, but he is fast. Finally she has her chance: With all her might and a primal sound she rams her blade into his sword arm, cutting flesh, enough to disable it, and this Bangaa has not been clever enough to learn to fight just as well with his other arm. He hisses, a guttural, ugly sound, his eyes crazed as he keeps lashing at her with his working arm, the other hung dead at his side, but it is too late. A minute later, he is weakened, hit with Sap, finally buckling to the cold stone floor, his life slowly draining as blood pours out of opened veins. Fran, her face and silver hair sprayed in red, places a heel on his neck.

“With your last words, will you do me the honour and tell me?” she says, voice rough from the rope.

He wheezes, laughs, his eyes fading. “I find release by the sight of heaven. This is more than I could ask for”, he slurs.

“You will not tell me who sent you”, she asks.

“You know who”, he gasps. “The Rozarrian was next.”

Fran’s mind darkens. _Gair Hostegar_. Why the hell did he want them dead?

“The mission had barely began”, she says, frustrated. The Bangaa coughs, chokes, his voice now only light breaths for her Vieran ears to hear. “A blessing.”

Fran scoffs. She does not want to bless a man who nearly succeeded taking her life. Yet, his death is as absolute as hers would have been.

“Only a small one”, she mutters.

_Kings in the sky and Goddess of the sea,_  
 _Take this man to your home as I plea._  
 _Embrace his body and soul to your chest,_  
 _Take him to comfort, take him to rest._

At that, the Bangaa sighs, having only minutes of delusional madness to go until he will be dead. Fran watches him as his eyes grow pained and empty. He smelled of crazed fear right from the start, but it is even heavier now. She has to take her focus off him though, she has done what she can to aid his death. She has more important matters to attend to.

She removes her heel from his neck, picks up her belongings and lifts her gaze, finally recognizing the smell of her helper, her ears picking up his racing pulse. He learns fast, the boy. His first task was the correct one, to distract her assassin, then lift the spell off her, knowing she would be better off fighting the Bangaa than he would. She tucks the sword back in place as his young eyes watch the Bangaa die, his frame stiff by the stone wall, another Remedy ready in his clenched hand, crossbow in the other. When she approaches him, he stares at the spots of blood on her face. She wipes off what she can with the back of her hand.

“You did well, let me get that out of the way first” she says, voice still coarse from the attempted strangling, then walks towards him persistently, prepared to sink her claws into his arm. “You are not supposed to be here. I am taking you home this instant.”

“Wait!” he calls. “I round up some paper for you.” He pulls out and holds up a rather large bind of folders and papers. “There are invoices, orders and supplier lists in here. I checked them.”

Fran glares at the stack of paper. “You were eavesdropping.”

“I wanted to help you”, he says, clearly no longer sure if what he did was wise.

Fran stares at him. The stack he holds out is the devil’s temptation. They belong to Balthier, has been taken from his office without his consent. Yet, Fran has a twisted thought that this theft is a crime the old pirate might be proud of.

“Snow, listen to me. This is important. Did you overhear the Bangaa talking to anyone?”

“No”, he says, his voice thin. “I waited around the docks for you to arrive, then I saw him following you.”

“Snow, your family might be in danger. We have to leave. Now.”

¨

“How did you arrive in Balfonheim before I did?” she asks as she steers the Bucket back out over sea, Snow clenching the passenger’s seat.

“Night ferry”, he says.

Fran finds no words.

Having set the course, she immediately starts the communication application to find a code for Gair Hostegar’s mansion, but as she suspected, he isn’t listed anywhere. She calls the Whitecap and leaves a note for Louis, telling him to lay low.

She then calls Snow’s house. “Fran”, Balthier says as he replies, “it appears Snow is missing.” Fran inhales.

“Call me as soon as you know more”, Balthier says huskily when Fran has straightforwardly explained the situation. “Then bring Snow home. I will make sure Claire and the girls stay indoors, if I’m lucky I don’t even have to explain how my old partner and my reckless son might have ruined dinner tonight.”

When the call has ended, Snow swallows. “I couldn’t stay, Fran”, he says, guilt clear in his voice. “You know what it’s like.”

“I was older than fifteen” Fran mutters, but she knows his heart so well she can’t bring herself to scold him.

¨

She lands close enough for them to jog their way up to the path leading to the mansion in just ten minutes. “You stay close to me”, she tells him. “And keep quiet.” Snow nods.

The Hume guarding the gate looks at her with an empty stare when she states her business. “I am under your master’s employment”, she says. “Just please take a message to his Viera assistant for me, that is all I ask.” Reluctantly he calls over a servant.

As they wait outside the gate, Fran fidgets, treading nervously around in circles. Snow sits down on the concrete leaning against the tall brazen fence, holding his crossbow. He shuts his eyes but opens them immediately after, as if startled by an unwanted sight playing before his closed eyes.

Finally a servant returns for the guard, muttering an order. The guard opens the gate for them, taking their weapons and flasks, Snow very reluctant to hand his over. “Follow Muki here.”

Muki leads them through different halls than the last time Fran was at this place. Snow gawks at everything he sees, still doing a better job at hiding his astonishment than Louis.

As they near a large, silver door, the Viera greets then, face straight as usual. Fran barely makes any move to slow, her ears hardened at her fellow Viera. “You may enter”, the Viera says as Fran passes her, Snow following her steps closely.

Gair Hostegar sits by his slim, long breakfast table. “Ah, Fran”, he begins, wiping his mouth with an embroidered napkin. “I did not expect to see you so soon. And certainly not at this hour.”

Fran’s voice is hard and clear as ice. “Nor alive. Am I right?”

He freezes, then smiles sweetly. “I knew that Bangaa wouldn’t be sufficient for the likes of you.” Fran hears Snow inhale behind her. “May I offer you some tea?”

“You may offer me an explanation.”

He pours himself a cup. “I was merely covering up my tracks.”

“We hadn’t brought you anything of worth yet. I can not begin to imagine what kind of tracks you think we’d left behind.”

His face remains expressionless. “Oh, but you had. You see, I knew all along it was that runaway runt of Cidolfus Bunansa who was sticking branches into my machinery, like you two often did back in the days. I also knew you would lead me straight to him.” He pours a spoon of sugar into his tea. “I was quite pleased to see it was you showing up on my doorstep with the bill in hand. Didn’t think you would, but time and boredom can be most treacherous to a willful person, eh?”

“Balthier has nothing to do with your problems”, Fran hisses. “Whatever you plan on doing to him, end it now.”

Gair Hostegar circles the spoon slowly in his tea. “And you believe him? When he says he knows nothing of my troubles?”

“Are you calling my father a liar?” Snow blurts, Fran holding him back, claws gripped tightly around his arm.

“I presume this is his kid?”

“Listen to me”, Fran growls, halfway covering Snow’s frame with hers. “If you did your research properly, you would know some Viera are able to detect more with their beloved ears than just regular sounds."

At that, he finally seems unsure. Snow looks at her in astonishment. "You can tell lie from truth?"

“Yes”, Fran says, pleased by the small flares running across Gair Hostegar’s eyes. For someone who has kept a Viera close to his chambers for a certain amount of time, this piece of information is not of insignificance.

Gair Hostegar narrows his eyes at her. “I have over two hundred chocobos in my stable.”

“Lie”, Fran says.

“When I was young, my family was poor.”

“Lie.”

“I find you more attractive than any woman I have met since my second wife.”

Fran glares at him.

“Fascinating”, Gair Hostegar says. “I was so sure I had found the person responsible. Well, that being said, I am glad it was not him who betrayed me. And you.”

Fran’s eyes burn. “Contact your men. Tell them to back down.” He nods towards his servant. “It is already done.”

He looks at Snow then, curious. “Your mother is a Lhusu, is she not?”

Snow nods slowly.

“I almost married a Lhusu once. Vile woman. I’m sorry you need to walk around with those genes inside your shell.”

“That is enough”, Fran says. “I presume this means I am no longer bound to your bill?”

His smile fades. “We need to talk”, he says. “If you would leave your sad remains of House Bunansa by the door for a minute.”

“You scum!” Snow has time to yell before Fran pushes him towards the door.

“Don’t you see he is pushing your buttons on purpose?” Fran says when the servant has shut the door behind them. “You need to learn not to lose your head for every insult thrown your way. For goodness’ sake, you’re like Balthier all over again!”

At that, Snow snorts pleased. Fran is half a hand from smacking him across the face. “You stay put while I talk to Mr. Hostegar.” She looks over at his assistant, sitting cross legged by a small table, draped in crimson, working on what appears to be a large schedule, her ears flicked to pick up on their conversation. “And leave the Viera alone.”

¨

When she enters the white painted room, decorated with green plants and blue patterns, her hands are clenched.

“What were you going to do to him?”

Gair Hostegar gestures for her to take a seat by the table. “I presume you’re referring to Mr. Bunansa?”

“It is quite clear what you intended for my fellow hunter”, she growls, not moving an inch.

“I understand your complete lack of faith in me at this point. Will it make it better when I say there is a reason I wanted the Bangaa to take you out first?”

“No.”

Gair Hostegar smiles. “I knew it would take much for him to finish you. I let the Gods decide, knowing the Gods would be in your favour.”

Fran’s eyes are black. “Your Gods almost killed me.”

“Yet here you stand.”

It is the last straw. Without any warning, Fran is over him, claws gripped around his throat, her thumbs pushing up into the soft spot under his jaw as hard as she can without puncturing his flesh. She hears the guard in the corner of the room yell, but he still has yards to go. “The kid followed me by pure luck”, she hisses, his blue eyes wide as he glares into hers. “Had he not, I would have been dead. What am I to you, some kind of toy? A piece of a puzzle in your beautiful home to keep you entertained?”

By those words, Gair Hostegar seems almost offended. “Certainly not. I am quite impressed by you.” He holds out a hand for the guard to halt. “It’s all right”, he calls.

“Balthier”, Fran repeats.

“He was to be taken in for questioning, his papers confiscated. He was not to be harmed.”

Fran loosens her grip. He is telling the truth. She still burns with rage, but she needs to keep a clear mind. Her claws are still tickling the veins on his neck.

“His wife and daughters are at home. They would witness his father being taken by force, his office vandalized.”

“As fit for the criminal he has been known as for years.”

Clearly there is more to this than a want to punish whoever responsible for Gair Hostegar’s extended office hours. It might appears House Hostegar has never been in favour of House Bunansa, and maybe this Archadian bull acted too quickly because of a wish of seeking revenge. But there is more: Fran can still smell the surprise on him. She realizes he did not expect her to go at him like she just did. For a man in power to send assassins after people, he knows very little of the effect a near-death experience can have on an individual, a Viera, even. He is a man of power, yet he is a man lacking knowledge. Like Claire when she was young, he has probably never walked through the street of a city or a town without guards or a carriage. She knows now he thoughtlessly left it to the Gods to decide if her life was worth keeping, and just now, she thinks, looking at the sharp blade in the guard’s hand, he has deliberately spared it. Fran can not make herself think of him as bad; he rather appears to be unaware of how his choices affects others.

There is no sword that will solve issues as these, Fran realizes. No sword nor theft of jewels. Should this man fade, he will only be replaced by another.

She stands up and sits down by the table, reluctantly. Gair Hostegar straightens his robe.

“The kid. He represents the next generation”, she says, jaw still clenched. “As long as there are people who feel you are exploiting both them and your land, this will keep happening. There will be people wanting to destroy your business, pirates wanting to spread your riches and workers wanting to put their axe into your skull.” She flicks her claws. “Or the likes.”

“Thanks for the imagery”, the silver haired man grimaces as rubs his neck, signaling for the guard to retreat. He then pours her a cup of tea. Fran watches as the water rises in the cup, the quiet sound of water a stark contrast to the incident taken place only moments ago.

“The thing you don’t understand”, he says, his hand shaking a little, “is that no matter what I do, I can not win. Now matter how many generations my House has been prosperous from hard work, they believe the riches were dropped into my lap by chance. I can not be bothered to argue with them any longer. I have found that the only thing that works, is a hard hand. Riches will always be split uneven. I would rather be the chaser than the one being chased.”

Fran leaves her tea untouched. “Still it appears to me you lack knowledge of strategy. How long since you last invited your contractors and the leaders of your workers to your house? When was the last time you threw them a banquet? When was the last time you gave them an extra hand of gil for the holidays?” She tilts her head. “There are ways to be rich and fair at the same time. Like a well run royal house.”

He pauses then, studying her. “Very rarely do I meet anyone who sparks my interest like you and your backstory does. There were Viera at Prince Rasler’s war boardroom”, he smiles. “I believe now I know why. Not only are you a master of weapons and machinery, you are also clever with politics.”

Fran puts her hand around the cup. “I think it would help if you agreed to see the work leaders.”

“I will do so, if you agree to see me again.”

Fran frowns. “This is emotional blackmail.”

“Maybe so. But you and I both know, I will always respect your decisions.” He grins. “Unlike your Rozarrian friend, I am able to take no for an answer. Agree to dine with me once, and I will not pursue this contractor. Instead, in the honour of a Viera brave enough to speak her mind instead of whispering secrets, and because the same Viera wish it, I will try a different route.”

His terms are fair, Fran can not bring herself to reject his offer. It still is a bit like being a prize Viera attached to his arm, but this time the reward isn’t a jewelled necklace, but a promise he will reevaluate the processes related to his business, which might make life better for some of the people employed by his contractors.

She feels the Archadian’s eyes on her as she exits the room, all the way until the servant has closed the door behind her. Snow is sitting on the floor, back resting against the wall as he’s watching the Viera delicately moving her pen over the sheets of paper on the table besides her, perfect, glossy silver hair flowing down her back, tan skin showing all the way from ankle to thigh due to the high split of her dress. He gets up from the floor as Fran passes them, determinately heading for the main gate. “I guess we’re done here?” Snow says, glancing over at the Viera as if considering saying goodbye to her or not. But as she pays him no mind, keeping her smooth, perfect face still and eyes locked on her writings, he holds his tongue and follows the resolute sound of Fran’s heels.

“She’s different from the Viera I’ve seen in Dalmasca”, he says as they collect their weapons and supplies from the guard. “And very different from you.”

“We might not be so different after all”, Fran murmurs as they exit the gate.

During the journey back to Dalmasca Snow hardly says a word. He sits in the passenger seat of the Bucket, fiddling with the straps on one of his his boots. Fran has hardly had time to consider his presence on this flight, her head being preoccupied by the events of the day. Several times he makes a sound of lips parting, a sound caught in his throat as if wanting to say something, but he seems unable to form words.

“I guess I’ve passed both parts of the first lesson”, he finally mutters. Fran flicks her right ear towards him, her eyes still fixated on her screen. “Huh?” she says as she lets her maps and monitor system finally rest, turning his attention on him.

“Your lesson”, Snow repeats, his eyes young and clear. “I know now what is at risk.”

¨

When they climb out of the Bucket, Claire comes running towards them, chances good she’s been sitting on the porch waiting for Fran’s ship to appear.

“Snow! Are you all right?” She puts her small hands on his cheeks, clearly too worried to be angry. “Balthier told me what happened. Please don’t run away from me, not ever again, Snow. Please.” Where before Snow would have pushed his mother away, he now tries a smile. Balthier appears at the scene, not so worried to not be cross, but he lets them have the moment. When Snow lets his mother hug him, Balthier cocks an eyebrow and moves his arms from folded to rest on his hips instead.

"I'm sorry", Fran says to Claire and Balthier both. “I never should have accepted this bill in the first place.”

"No, this is just as much my past catching up with me as it is anything either of you did", Balthier says, and at those words, Snow looks relieved. Fran looks at the boy, a small smile on her lips. “The part I forgot to mention, and shamefully so, is how Snow saved my life in Balfonheim”, she says, a question lingering over both Claire and Balthier’s faces.

“I value my life highly, Snow, and I want to thank you properly for coming to my aid.” She pulls her old Yoichi bow off her shoulder and holds it out for him, beautiful in its simplicity, a testimony to the fine craftsmanship of the Viera of the wood. “It has been a teacher to me for many years. I think it is time it changed owners. Please, take it.”

The three of them blinks as Snow glares at the offer. Finally he steps forward to accept the bow carefully, his long fingers stroking the smooth material as Fran lets it go.

“Are you sure?” He asks. “Because there’s no taking backs.” Balthier pulls a face at his son’s untimely use of jokes in a moment of gravity such as this one, but Fran chuckles. “Yes.”

“Thank you”, he says, eyes still on the bow as he studies the tiny engravings on its handle.

“Snow saved your life?” Claire asks, still confused.

¨

When Fran leaves later in the evening following a meal and the complete tale, Balthier and Claire staring at Snow in both astonishment and disbelief during the retelling, it is with a promise she will train Snow every weekend for some time to come; Claire looking as if taking every fiber in her being using the words “Fran” and “please” in the same sentence. There is nothing Claire wouldn’t do for her children.

“Thank you for your trust”, Fran replied, noticing the duality to Balthier’s expression shot her way over the lighted candle on the table: One half being forever thankful for helping her son, a shadow passing the other, something undisclosed, like a sense of longing, or even jealousy.

Snow turns out to yet again be unavailable for goodbyes, though this time it is for being actually asleep. He’s passed out on the large divan in the living room, Fira halfways curled up in his lap, the bow acquired for his deeds steadied against the wall a few feet away from them.

¨

As Fran steps into the candle lit winter garden with a marvellous view of the sun sinking into the Dorstonean sea, Gair Hostegar cocks his head and grins at the well known sight of her armoured legs. “Not a woman for dressing up. I should have known.”

“I do not like wearing dressing gowns”, Fran replies as she walks down the stoned steps to where is he offering her a glass of white wine. She accepts. “You may ask for my company, but a theatrical performance I will not give.”

“Nor would I want from you”, he replies, holding his glass up to toast her welcome.

Several well dressed servants serve them course after course of strange meals, all of them different to Fran’s regular diet. She wonders how many people works in Gair Hostegar’s kitchen.

When she asks, he shares with her his relations to Balthier’s former House. “I knew Cidolfus Bunansa back when his wife and two eldest sons were still alive. After their deaths, he filled his days with work. He tried his best to set a good career for his son, but we all know how that ended”, he smiles.

“Balthier left when his father crossed a line”, Fran parries.

“Well, were it not for the Nethicite, Cid Bunansa would have ended up alone still, like the bane is for every rich, old man.”

He is a lonely man, Fran thinks, his children only interested in him for their coming inheritance, the people surrounding him only there for the pay. Even Fran is here because he made a deal with her. She wonders, had Balthier never left Archades, if it would be him sitting alone in a cold mansion by the sea in a few years time.

“Every man’s dream is to get rich”, he sighs as he leans back in his chair. “But what they fail to realize, is how no matter how rich a man is, there still is a prize he pays.”

“So why roll in the riches then?” Fran asks. Gair Hostegar smiles. “As you near a certain age, your fifth wife leaving will make you realize you will never have anyone take interest in you for something other than your gold - it is not the glory that gold offers, it is the safety, yet never enough to hold a woman's interest. You then realize your reputation is all you have left. Should I throw away my riches now, all they will remember Gair Hostegar for is being the man who threw away centuries of family fortune.”

“You saw the woman in the fountain?” he asks when Fran stays quiet in thought. “The sculpture? The one with the children?” Fran nods.

He looks out towards the dark sea. “She is the only woman I ever truly loved. Met her in my early twenties, I did. Sadly she was one of my father’s secretaries, in other words, way beneath me. She was no wife to bring to my House, and so I was left to choose. Like any sane boy, I chose what was right. I let her go and married my first wife of many.”

He circles his glass, staring at its content, almost hypnotized.

“Through all my five marriages, I could never truly forget her. In my children, I saw her face, thinking what theirs might had looked like had they been hers and mine, which was unfair to all of them.”

Fran does not know what to say. This man was forced to choose between reason and the one person he loved, not knowing the gravity of his decisions.

“My wives all left me, my children are scattered, barely visiting.” He lifts his gaze, his eyes filled with the memories and longing of a much older man. ”This is my legacy now. This mansion, this business. It will be what I leave behind.”

“I… can not offer you more”, Fran says, understanding all too well now who he is.

He smiles. “Do not feel sorry for me, Viera. You have given me all I could ever ask of you. My spring and summer both are ending. Such it will be.” He looks at her curiously. “Were I you, I’d reconsider my choices. Life is too short, even for someone who lives for centuries.”

When the Archadian millionaire has kissed her hand goodnight, Fran wonders what _her_ legacy is, what kind of imprint she will have left on this earth when she one day are one with the soil. In the Wood, the Viera care not for riches nor heritage, Viera simply go back to the Wood as naturally as they were born under her boughs. It is not in Fran’s nature to fear death from old age, or what it will do to her name.

She hears Snow’s voice in her head then. _You’re not like the other adults._ Her distinction has always been her strength, but rarely has it been of use to others than herself. Snow can use her advice and teachings. He _needs_ her, Fran realizes, and this notion makes her feel strangely comforted.

¨

Months later, on a warm and quiet afternoon, Fran is sitting in the Lhusu/Bunansa family’s tiny shed, once a place for keeping outdoors tools, Balthier’s inventorial remains from the Strahl and clutter of other different kinds, now for each passing week turning into a storage for Snow’s growing collection of weapons and items. She is cleaning her blades and arrows as she hears someone approaching the wooden cot. Balthier, not having left his office for the entire day, freezes as he appears in the doorway.

“Oh, you’re still here.” He pauses. “Snow always forgets to close this door.”

“He promised his mother to help out with dinner this evening”, Fran says, wiping bloodstains off an arrow. “I’m leaving straight after finishing this.”

“Did it go well today?” he asks, a courtesy more than an interest in starting a conversation.

“Getting better for every lesson”, she replies. “I should move on to general map knowledge soon.”

Balthier studies her. “You seem to be connecting well with him these days.”

“He seems more at ease”, Fran nods. “I think hard work is remedy for him, keeps him preoccupied and focused.” She lifts her eyes from her arrow and tilts her head at Balthier. “Just like someone I know.”

“I’m perfectly able to take things easy”, Balthier snorts, sitting down in the old chair next to her deemed unworthy for their house, as a demonstration. “I suppose you sitting in your office for fourteen hours a day aligns with your version of ‘taking things easy’”, Fran teases.

She appears to have stirred something within him. “It’s work, not mocking about like Snow was doing before you took him out shooting arrows. I need to support my family, Fran, and my job requires focus.”

“You can’t convince me you need to work fourteen hours a day.”

“In periods I do. The job requires it.”

“Still, don’t you find it unfair it is now your family having to pull _your_ ears for attention?”

He remembers then, and his face is not softened by the realization he might be turning into what he once disapproved of in Claire. Instead, his pulse rises, his skin smelling of aggression. “I am there for my family, Fran. They are warm and safe and my children gets the help they need. Do not provoke me further.”

Fran’s ears hardens. “Yesterday Fira was afraid to knock on your door to get her toy chocobo.”

Fran does nothing to soften her demeanor, on the contrary holding his gaze, eyes challenging him. Balthier’s chest rises, Fran watching him slowly lose his temper as if he was nearing twenty instead of his almost forty.

As he opens his mouth to shout, Fran says, dryly, “are you going to dismiss me now?”

At that, his rage stifles. He does not yell, instead rises from the chair, trotting frustrated around in the tiny circle the cramped amount of space will allow him, looking out the the only window of the shed.

“You’re right”, he says, placing his hands at his waist. “You’re always right. Damn you for always being right, Fran.”

“I might be right about others”, Fran replies lowly, “however I seem unable to be right about how I should live my own life.”

Balthier turns, curious. “It is not only Snow that needs me, Balthier. _I_ also need _him_. I need to teach him what I know.”

Balthier chuckles dryly. “I suppose there is more than one way you can end up needing him.”

Fran looks at him in surprise, her face turning into a grimace. “Balthier, don’t be ridiculous. He is your kid.”

Balthier shrugs. “So? I too was once someone’s kid, and now I am a grown man. Doesn't take long for that to happen.”

Fran leans back on her wooden, backless chair, a tease on her lips. “Are you jealous of your son’s youth, Balthier?”

Balthier laughs a short laugh to state his denial, but he knows he cannot hide the truth from her. She challenges him no further. She has always respected Balthier enough to let him have his moments of weakness. This jealousy must make him feel petty enough as it is without her ridiculing him for it. She knows now he fears his prime is ending, like Gair Hostegar’s has.

“Do not worry, there is still life left in your old bones”, Fran snickers, but when she meets Balthier’s gaze, it is not light for her joke: It is heavy, as if revealing the pent-up frenzy of a full grown Hume male; unsated, kept hungry, his wishes and feelings suppressed for too long. She feels Immobilized, as if his stare has pierced her to the floor; she finds it hard to say or do anything at all.

For moments, they do not speak, Balthier glaring at Fran, Fran unable to pull her eyes off his. It is a sticky silence, something immaterialised in the air only known to their subconscious senses, growing heavier for each passing moment. It appears a new void has been building between them, or is it the old one having returned, never really vanquished?

Fran believes she now knows why Balthier prefers staying in his office when she is around.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was about time I wrote in some chocobos! Also, the first time Fran ever flirts with Balthier, it had to be for his trousers. Dem legs. *grin*
> 
> Fran and Snow shooting Cockatrices is in there solely for the rage I still have after chasing that fucking Cockatrice in Rabanastre for about an hour.


	8. Aiming true

They are sudden and unexpected, the events that has left Fran an airship short, instead sitting with Balthier’s three children in a grass patch next to the Chocobo pen: _It’s her father_ , Balthier said as they stood by her ship an hour earlier, waiting for Claire to give her children a final appeal for good behaviour. _He fell ill very fast, and now he’s requested Claire go see him right away._ The couple took off right before noon. By now, the Bucket is probably docked somewhere in Archades, the flight taking her there surely a much smoother ride than the time Balthier took her for a spin with Fran in the passenger seat.

Instead of spending the day getting a new lesson, seventeen year old Snow now has to sit with his sisters making chocobo feet out of pipe cleaners.

“Look! It’s finished!!”

Her home made toy finally completed, six year old Fira waves a fluffball of yellow yarn resolutely in her siblings’ faces in the proper order: Snow wrinkles his slightly freckled nose as he brushes her off. Having decided this is more than enough time spent with his younger siblings, he gets up from the grass and heads for the house. Serpent pushes her mischievous sister off with a friendly, yet uninterested “it’s very nice”, clear with undertones of “now go away”.

The girl then pauses in front of Fran, sitting cross-legged in the grass mending her arrow container, considering whether or not to do the same to the Viera. Not unexpectedly she ends up giggling as she tugs the toy shyly to her chest. “It’s a fine birthday present indeed”, Fran smiles. “I’m sure Claire will be very pleased.” 

Fira beams, strands of blonde hair falling over her blue-grey eyes that slowly finds their way up towards Fran’s ears. She’s yet to muster up the courage to ask permission to touch them, but should she one day manage, Fran believes she wouldn’t be able to deny the girl, even for her preference of having her ears left alone. Where Snow has drive and Serpent has purpose, Fira possesses the ability to have anything she’s set her heart on.

“When is _your_ birthday, Fran?” the girl asks as she pets her present very carefully, almost looking sad she’ll have to give it up. “I don’t know”, Fran replies. 

Fira’s face is one of surprise and disbelief as she tries to figure out what this means. “You don’t know?” she gapes, Fran shaking her head. “Why?” Serpent asks, lifting her gaze from the notepad she is solving equations on. 

“Viera in the Wood don’t use the Valendian calendar”, Fran explains, pulling her needle through the leather. “I know roughly which time of the year I was born, but finding the correct date would be near impossible.” 

Fira thinks hard for a few more moments, then her face lights up. “Today can be your birthday!” she exclaims. “Don’t be silly”, Serpent says, “we have no cake, or presents.” Fira goes back to her pondering. “That’s all right”, Fran hums. “We can all decide on a date later.”

“Did you never celebrate your birthday?” Serpent asks as Fira is running towards the house to find a place to hide her present from her mother. “Well”, Fran begins, wondering how many of her stories would be appropriate for a fifteen year old - although Snow saw a man die at Serpent’s age, that was an accident. Sharing stories of pirate parties and raids would be by choice. “Your father and I celebrated my birthday on a few occasions, when we felt for it.” _When we needed an excuse_ , she remembers fondly before being put off by Serpent’s observant stare.

Fran’s ears picks up on Snow and Fira arguing inside the house over the potential use of Snow’s room as a hiding place. Snow has recognized her attempt at getting into his room; this is not the first time.

Fran trusts Snow to take care of his sister when out of her reach, but only to a certain extent. Even for growing more cunning over the past two years, he is still young. Fran finds he is getting just as sly as Balthier, which works both to his advantage and its opposite. Fran believes he will grow into a relaxed and confident man, but for now she knows that no matter how much he puts up a polite mask, he still harbours the temper of a growing teen. He’s been allowed to go with his father to Rabanastre a couple of times to visit the house of the Centurio clan and to get some new equipment, behaving just well enough to have his mother’s permission for the next trip. 

Not that it’s all a mask: Father and son seems to have recently found some sort of silent understanding. Balthier is a lot more relaxed around Snow these days, perhaps even starting to show a slight glow of pride.

Snow’s sister, currently sitting with Fran, is a different story. Like her older brother, she has high levels of energy, but where Snow’s is very exterior, she contains hers inside a shell of a back straight, upper arms thin and a curious stare. Serpent will lose her temper with her parents and siblings, but to anyone else she will remain perfectly level: She always seems well behaved around Fran, keeping to her chocobos and her maps. Very rarely does Fran find herself alone with Serpent as she does in this very moment.

She looks over at the brown haired girl sitting cross-legged, scribbling in her book. Just like Snow, she does poorly in school with words, however unlike her brother, she does well with maths. She shows no interest in going with Fran and Snow to train, but she has on occasion curiously watched them as they work on Snow’s augment skills.

Fran finds her reluctance to utilise Fran’s knowledge a little strange. 

“I remember when you were little”, she says, wondering. “I showed you a few spells. When my magick ran out, you cried. Do you still like magick, Serpent?”

The girl keeps her eyes on her pen. “I guess.”

“Wouldn’t you want to learn some for yourself?”

The girl shifts, staying quiet.

“Whether you want to learn or not, I will not judge you. You are the one to decide what you allow others to see of you and not. Just know you can ask me any time should you change your mind.”

Serpent’s pen stills. “I… don’t think I’d be any good at it.”

“Nobody is at first.”

“I’d probably only be wasting your time.” The girl looks at Fran. Her eyes are as Claire’s, but where her mother’s are a shade of green and grey, hers is a strange, vibrant colour of the same green, always changing depending on the light.

“Certainly not”, Fran replies, putting down her leather container. She pulls out a small flask of Ether from one of her pouches, holding it out for the girl. “Here.”

Serpent stares at the flask, hand still on her pen. Very slowly she puts the pad down next to her, the pen placed carefully on top. She reaches out to take the bottle, careful not to touch Fran’s hand. She holds it awkwardly as she waits for instructions. “Open it”, Fran says. Serpent unscrews the cap carefully, her upper body jerking at the strange feeling of magick surrounding her preferie.

Her eyes find Fran’s.

“Now hold out your hand”, Fran says, the girl obeying, her pulse rising. Fran then casts Bravery, slowly so Serpent can watch how the light blue orb of steam forms in her palm. She holds it out for the girl, accepting it, wide-eyed, focusing hard to not let the ball evaporate or glide off her palm. Fran pulls her own hand back to her lap, watching the girl balance the magick. “Now cast it.”

“How?” Serpent says.

“Wish it for yourself. Absorb it.”

Serpent takes a deep breath, tilting her palm to have the magick bounce towards her chest, making a strange sound as it fills her.

“See? Not hard at all”, Fran smiles. Serpent nearly smiles back. “Isn’t this something you’d like to know more of?”

Serpent’s near-smile fades.

“I know you do”, Fran tries, her ears tilting as she examines the girl’s face. “I wouldn’t mind showing you.”

“Maybe I’d like to learn one day”, she mumbles, “just not… now.”

“Why?” Fran asks mildly.

Serpent looks down at her hands. “I just… I find it hard being around you sometimes.” As soon as she’s said the words her face is filled with regret.

Fran knows. She doesn’t think her family has learned, for the girl hides her emotions well, always careful to not cross a line that would result in too much attention thrown her way. With Snow as an older brother and the young Fira as a sister, this is no hard task to accomplish.

Keeping secrets is fine, but some can be a harder to carry alone than others.

“Because…” Fran says, “...you find me beautiful, but will never be given permission to harvest my beauty?”

Several emotions passes over Serpent’s face as she looks at Fran: The first is surprise, shock even; the second relief, and then there is shame. She blushes a suiting shade of pink, the slim body in her dark gown no longer straight but gone slightly floppy, as if she’s forgotten to hold herself up. She looks down awkwardly as if wishing she were anywhere else but sitting on this very patch of grass besides Fran. By her reaction, Fran suspects this is the first time anyone, her friends included, has learned her secret.

Fran gazes up at the sky as to give the girl room.

“Is it that obvious?” Serpent mumbles.

“Not at all”, Fran says honestly. She closes her eyes and lets the sun warm her face. After a heated argument, Snow is now showing Fira all the good hiding places in the living room.

“Fran… do you ever feel… out of place?”

Fran’s ears shake off a fly. “Occasionally, yes. But not as much as when I first left the Wood.”

Serpent holds her quiet, not finding herself able to word more questions, so Fran answers them for her. “When I left the wood, it was for longing for the sky. It was not easy to leave those I had known from birth. But I knew there was something out there that fit me better. It was a risk I was willing to take to be free.”

Serpent plays with a strand of grass, carefully picking each straw apart into tiny pieces.

Fran opens her eyes. “I is a big world out there. Do not limit yourself to the constrictions of this place and the people in it, should they not understand. You are clever, you are skilled and you are beautiful. You can have anything you want.”

At the word ‘beautiful’, Serpents eyes widens. She stares at Fran, as if she’s waiting for her to laugh as if her words were all a cruel joke. She relaxes at Fran’s honest expression, chewing on her next words very carefully before uttering them. “Please don’t tell anyone?”

“Never. This is between you and me.”

“I… thank you, Fran.” She picks more grass to shred. There are words she could share now that she has someone to say them to, but Serpent comes up with nothing. So they sit quietly in the sun, two females with fates not so unlike.

¨

When Claire and Balthier return in the evening, Fran and the children are trying a round of cards at the kitchen table, turning out to be not so much a game of cards but an exchange of accusations of cheating. Claire looks like she’s been dragged through Giruvegan and back, her face pale, eyes swollen as if she’s been crying heavily. “Did you eat yet?” she asks as she looks like she’s sleepwalking into the kitchen. “We had stew!” Fira shrieks, her energy levels fit for the hour nearing her bedtime.

“That’s nice”, Claire says, kissing Fira on the head. “I think it’s bedtime, you.” 

When Fira starts to protest gesturing towards the cards, Claire shatters. 

Fira’s eyes tears up, her expression changing from upbeat to completely stiff. Claire’s shoulders lowers as she rubs her forehead. “I’m sorry, baby”, she says as she kneels by her daughter, regretting her shouts. “It’s been… a rough day.”

“What happened?” Serpent asks, Balthier shaking his head in response. “I’ll tell you in the morning”, Claire replies as she strokes her daughter’s back, Fira’s sobs quieting. “Is he dying?” Snow asks in his typically brutally honest way. “You heard what she said”, Balthier replies briskly. “Pack up the cards.”

Fran sits quiet by the table, feeling as much an outsider, an invader, as ever.

As Fira kisses her father and siblings goodnight, Fran feels something stir. She wishes she was in her bucket on her way back to Balfonheim. Her thoughts are suddenly interrupted when Fira, without thinking, leans in to peck her on the cheek, leaving a soft, wet mark.

Fran has not been kissed, let alone by a child, for a very long time. She finds her bones are melting a little - it is almost a comfort to something Fran did not realise she needed to be comforted for.

“I’ll be leaving”, she says as she gets up from her chair when it is only her, Balthier and the two siblings left in the room. “Wait”, Snow says, “what about my lesson?”

Fran knows how restless he grows when the highlight of his week is canceled. She finds herself looking at Balthier, but his gaze is far away. She suspects Claire needs his support tonight, she does not want to force herself onto his family. On the other hand, Snow needs Fran and her lessons.

“I don’t think --” she starts when Balthier snaps out of his thoughts. “No, stay”, he says, then he clears his throat. “If the divan in my office didn’t skewer your back the last time you slept on it, you’re welcome to do so again.”

¨

Fran spins the globe of Ivalice, staring at the huge, green patches of Mist nobody knows what lies beneath. Balthier cracks his knuckles as he stares at the books in one of his bookshelves. “I wish I had some leaf.”

“I’ll bring you some Jaharian next time I come around.”

He turns to her where she sits on his Archadian divan. “I suspect I’m not really supposed to. But I’d kill for some right now.”

“What went on today?” Fran asks.

Balthier loosens his cufflinks. His shirt is too stiff, too Archadian, for his taste. “The old man is halfway into his designated hole in the ground.” He puts one cufflink down on his desk. “He wanted to talk about wills and such.”

“Oh.”

“You can imagine. Especially with Claire being the next in line to inherit the House and its business due to her older brother’s recent death. Very rarely do women take over Houses in Archades, provided they have sons themselves, but it has happened on a few occasions.” The other cufflink comes off.

“Was she offered?”

Balthier grimaces. “Of course not. But by loopholes, it is her birthright. She could take it if she wanted.”

“And you would support it? Even if it would mean moving to Archades?”

Balthier turns back to the bookshelf, massaging his wrists. “It would mean… something. A change. It might give her purpose.”

Fran rests her head in her palm. Being around kids all day takes its toll.

“You are a good husband, Balthier”, she yawns. “Accusing you of being distant aside, I know you still have respect for Claire. Your kids, though they be stubborn and in need of some tutoring, are turning out fine. You have done well.”

There is something to his gaze she is having a hard time deciphering. He smiles lightly. “For all my years, you still make me feel like a cub.”

“You shouldn’t, that’s not what I --”

“I’ll take it”, he says, his smile warming her. 

¨

“I’m so sure I left it in the shed”, Snow wails as he looks at the weapons and equipment laid out on the kitchen table in front of him. Annoyed, he heads out to look for his item belt for the third time. As he exits through the main entrance of the house, Claire shows up in the doorway leading to the living room. She sighs.

“I told him not to put those there.”

“I’m sorry, I did not know”, Fran says; to her, a dining table is a most natural place to leave weapons. 

Claire shakes her head. “He knows. Sometimes I think he provokes me intentionally.” She glances at the equipment on the table, her eyes landing on a simplistic, elegant crossbow. 

“Isn’t that one of my old ones?” She walks over to the table, stroking the bow softly with the tips of her fingers, her brows furrowing as she feels the wood. “I enjoyed this weapon. It was given to me by one of the masters in Rabanastre”

Fran examines her face, pondering.

“Why don’t you come?”

Claire frowns. “Come where?”

“Hunting”, Fran says. “That, or just to see Snow’s progress..”

Claire’s face remains blank.

“I don’t think so”, she says, taking her hand off the weapon. “It’s been a very long time since any of this meant anything to me.” She smiles, pride in her voice. “Snow is the hunter in the family now.”

“I am sure Snow would not mind”, Fran tries, knowing she is treading on dangerous grounds. She does not want to suggest she knows Claire’s son better than Claire herself, even for such being a fact regarding certain things. “He did say he wanted to become a weapon’s apprentice, like his mother”, Fran says, hardly finding it relevant mentioning how during that discussion with Snow, the “like your mother” part were her own words.

Claire picks up the crossbow, holding it up to examine its engravings. She tests the weight of it, lets it settle on her lower arm. As she keeps handling it, her touch turns less clumsy.

“All right”, she says. “For old times’ sakes.” She smirks. “For _very_ old times’ sakes.”

“Found it”, Snow says as he walks in holding his belt, sharing the uninteresting information of its whereabouts; it was lying on the floor in his room, hiding under yesterday’s shirt. His favourite shirt, when is laundry day again?

Fran flick her ears towards him, a warning to keep quiet and listen.

“Guess who’s coming with you today”, Claire says, holding her crossbow awkwardly against her shoulder as if trying to impress him. The teen glares at his mother, baffled, but holds his tongue. 

“Don’t make fun of your mother”, she warns. Snow smirks as he attaches his belt around his waist. “I’ll try.”

¨

“Keep up, _Ma_ ”, Snow shouts merrily as he leads the way tracing a path up a hill. Claire scoffs. “He’s going to enjoy watching me miss all my targets.”

“I do not believe you will miss all your targets”, Fran replies, walking next to her.

“Did you ever see me _not_ miss my target?”

When Fran stays quiet, Claire laughs. “Exactly.” That’s not right, Fran thinks; the only time she saw Claire missing every single shot, she was fighting for her life. The Coeurl the day before she needed several shots to take down, but technically it wasn’t missing, even for her bolts hitting the cat exclusively in its hind legs. 

“Balthier was never good with bows”, Fran tries. “Snow is. I’d like to think he has that from you.”

“Thank you Fran, but you don’t really have to.”

Fran decides on holding her quiet. For some reason, it has always been difficult for her to converse with Claire; the blonde complicates her words more than needed. Balthier’s never had problems interpreting their true meaning. Fran, however, can’t seem to be able to find the right vibe to Claire’s string.

It is a good thing though, Claire having the opportunity to see the effort her son puts into this. She watches with interest as him and Fran readies their items and magicks in front of the cave. When their plan of sending Snow first into said cave is revealed, Claire looks worried. “Are you sure this is a good idea?” she asks. Before Snow can protest, Fran assures her it is safe. _Safe enough_ , she thinks; being _too_ careful will never make a good hunter out of the boy.

“I wasn’t to worry about Shell, was I?” he asks Fran as she fastens a loosened strap on the harness attaching his crossbow to his back. Fran shakes her head.

“So not like Lahr Plains then.”

They both chuckle. Claire stands quiet, watching them.

“Good hunting”, Fran says as Snow heads into the cave. As his frame disappears into the darkness, Claire fidgets. Fran has explained how he’s not going far in, how she can hear his every move clearly. This lesson is about finding prey in the darkness, and the marks in the cave are not of significant danger.

Fran places her bow against the rocky surface next to the opening to the cave, moving her head to stretch her neck. She feels Claire’s eyes on her, but when she turns, Claire’s eyes are fixated on the cave. Her arms are crossed, leaning her weight on one leg in her knee-short, brown trousers. She fit into her old hunting clothes, which Fran believes to be more unusual than the opposite for a woman her age.

Claire stares intently at the cave opening, as if she’s expecting her son to come running out of it any second, wounded, maybe missing an arm. “He will be fine”, Fran says. “He has taken on worse tasks before.”

Claire gapes. “That’s supposed to comfort me?”

Again Fran keeps her tongue. Then she decides she will not.

“If you want him to stay away from this, you should let him know.”

“...and have his anger directed towards me? That certainly won’t do any good.” Claire shifts her weight to the other leg. “He wouldn’t listen to me anyway. He listens to his father more these days.” The glance she shoots Fran is suggesting all of this is somehow Fran’s fault.

“I do not know what you would have me do, Claire.”

“Don’t do anything, Fran.” Her eyes go back to the cave. “Just keep doing what you’re doing, that seems to be the only thing working at the moment.”

Fran bites her lip.

“Is something bothering you, Claire?”

The blonde’s expression remains blank. “I want to ask you the same thing, Fran. No, I want to ask you if you’re _capable_ of being bothered. I presume not.”

Fran’s left ear twitch.

“There are things I wish were different”, Fran says slowly. She is unsure of Claire’s intentions with her words. She wonders if she needs to rephrase her question, but before she can, Claire sets her eyes to hers. “What would _you_ do, Fran? I do wonder. What would you do if you had the opportunity to claim a House, but nobody but one person believed you could really manage? No, don’t tell me. You’d have no problems claiming it, would you, and succeed gloriously. There is nothing you can’t do, right?”

“That is impossible to say”, Fran says simply.

Claire uncrosses her arms, clearly frustrated by her answer. Somehow Fran is incapable of coming up with a single thing to say that Claire won’t take the wrong way. It is nearing the point where Fran is wishing they’d never have to speak again.

“I could never take over management of a House!” Claire exclaims. “I don’t know the first thing of what has been going on there, I barely know the solicitors and secondary managers. It would be a complete disaster!”

 _If you say so, then it probably would; I’m certainly not the one to say_ is Fran’s immediate choice of response, but she knows by now this is not the type of answer Claire is looking for. “You think it would be a disaster”, she repeats instead, hoarse.

“Yes. I don’t know what could convince me otherwise.”

There is something Claire isn’t saying, something she wants to ask, assuming Fran might provide her with some form of answer. Fran looks for the questions, but even for the few she finds, she isn’t sure they are the questions Claire truly need an answer to. 

Instead of trying to pick an answer, she instead picks a question. 

“Do you _want_ it?”

Claire looks at Fran, and for a second appears to be completely lost.

“I don’t know”, she says, breathless. “I don’t know what I want, Fran. Maybe I never knew.”

“There is nothing wrong with not wanting the responsibility that comes with leading a business”, Fran says. “I met the head of an Archadian House recently, living out by the sea in an enormous house. Though he does not say it, I think he sees his leadership as a burden more than anything.”

It seems Fran has been able to finally provide Claire with some kind of comfort. Her shoulders lowers, her expression turning less tense.

Moments pass before she speaks. “Sometimes I wonder, was I the one to be tossed at sea, would I survive. I have never really tried.”

Fran chuckles; this isn’t true. “Snow’s unexpected arrival does not fit that category, you think?” They both turn their eyes to the cave as the person in question yells from inside it _you sneaky cunts, come out or I’ll grenade the entire goddamn cave!!_

Claire turns back to Fran, for the first time in a very long time with an honest look of gratitude.

¨

When Snow exits the cave, it is sans monster, plus attitude. He flings his crossbow to the side and puts his knuckles to his waist. “There is no way to sniff them out”, he halfway yells. “I don’t know how the hell you think I’m supposed to lure them out, Fran.” The side of his mouth pull up, his eyes dark and angry. “It’s probably easy for you with your freaky animalistic hearing.”

Fran tilts her head. “While I might be have physical advantages exceeding yours for this tasks, Humes can certainly complete it with success. It is not an easy one, I told you up front. I did not expect you to return with anything.”

Snow kicks a rock across the grass. “Then what’s the point?”

“You still believe what your eyes can see and your hands can touch to be the only result of value?”

His eyes turn to the ground. “Everything else is just words. You can’t eat words, or make items out of them.”

“Snow --” Claire starts, but he waves her off. “I’m proud of you for trying, Snow. You will finish this task, as you have all the other.” The teenager is already stomping off down the hill.

The boy walks ahead of them in silence. As they near their home, Snow turns down the offer to go hunting for Cockatrices. “I’m gonna work on some augments. Maybe I can come up with something that lets me grow rabbit ears.” 

Even for the bitterness in his words, Fran knows his confidence is just momentarily broken. It will mend. 

“All right. I will come see you in a couple of hours.” Snow nods.

After Claire having said her goodbyes to her son, Fran turns to her. “Do you want to test that old bow of yours?”

Claire shrugs. “If it even fires.”

¨

They are two very different women, having almost nothing in common but a man. They are of a different age, height, skin color, history, temper and drive, one being gifted with a family by chance, the other determinedly seeking her purpose, losing out on the important trivialities thrown at her along the way.

Both believe the other has something they don’t.

“Snow is a lot like Balthier, isn’t he”, Claire says as they make their way between the trees. “Serpent resembles me more. She is growing up to be a beautiful young lady, with my eyes and his colour.”

Fran nods. “She is clever, too.”

“I do wonder, had she grown up in Archades like I did, would she have been the girl everybody wanted a dance with. I wasn’t unpopular myself, but Serpent has the height. I think the boys would be fighting over her.”

Fran smiles. “I am sure they would.”

“Fira has learned to read and write already. I feel awful for Snow and Serpent to have inherited the problems with the written word coming from my side of family.”

Fran chews on a claw. “I believe they will all do well. I can see no reason why they shouldn’t.”

Claire seems pleased by those words. It appears Fran is starting to learn.

They soon reach the spot Fran has pointed out for them. They do a few rounds of practice shots first, aiming at trees in the near distance. Claire is clearly lacking training, but she still remembers the basics. Her aim is not too far off.

“My aim is terrible”, she says.

Minutes later they’re walking along a small creek running through a valley, quietly looking for prey. Fran signals for Claire to wait, and not long after, a Cockatrice stomps lightly through the grass on the far end of the other side of the water.

Claire readies her bow, looking focused for the task. She looks at Fran, having kneeled by the water, nodding back. 

Her bolt misses the heart, but it hits the bird in the neck, good enough for it to drop to the ground. Without a word, both women tread swiftly alongside the creek, crossing it as they near the bird.

Without further instructions, Claire pulls out her dagger and finishes the bird.

The wind brings sudden news. Fran smells the Kaiser Wolf before she hears it. She signals for Claire to crouch down and wait. She listens, sniffs, watches, knowing they have to move fast should they want to leave without any trouble. 

But it is too late for a swift exit. The grey and black wolf-like creature is only about a hundred feet away from them, treading lightly through the grass. It’s dark eyes glistens as it freezes, one front paw pulled up, knowing its been spotted. 

It is a prey slightly larger than what Fran had in mind, it’s back reaching Claire to her chest. It has smelled the blood, and does no second guessing: Within a heartbeat it lashes forward towards them, Fran knowing it has its eyes set on Claire.

Claire acts on instinct. Her crossbow is loaded within seconds, her first bolt missing completely. Fran kneels down in the water, waiting. “This is no good, Fran!” Claire shouts as she loads her bow again, her legs trembling as she aims and fires again, this time hitting the beast in the chest, enough for it to weave slightly, not by far enough to stop it.

“Fran!” Claire cries, clearly stressed, but she does not run; she pulls another bolt. The wolf-like monster is so close now it will be over her within seconds.

“Shoot it!” Fran yells as she readies her dagger, giving Claire her last chance to kill the beast. Claire stumbles backwards, loads, aims; she gasps with fear as the bolt flies, planting itself right in the eye of the beast, placed well enough to pierce a part of its brain. The heavy, soon to be lifeless body falls over Claire, it’s skull landing on her arm as Claire falls against the rocks. She gasps, a cry caught in her throat. 

Fran casts Float to move the animal away from her, water splashing as it falls into the creek. 

Claire writhes, one arm held in the air, the other laying awkwardly by her side. “Arm”, she gasps, “I think my arm is broken.”

Fran kneels down next to her, pulling out a Hi-Potion for quick recovery. The magick work fast, knitting the bone and healing the swelling, but the pain remains. Claire gasps as Fran helps her over to a some moss covered stones nearby. “We should bind this”, Fran says as she reaches in her pouch to pull out a piece of long, narrow fabric. “It will make it easier for you until we can get you something for the pain.”

Claire’s breath is still shallow, rapid. “I knew this was a bad idea” she moans. Fran smells the self doubt on her. She tries a smile as she cuts the cloth to a good length with her dagger, but Claire’s stare is empty. “He was right all along”, she mutters.

Fran drapes the cloth around Claire’s neck, carefully sweeping it around her elbow. “Who was right? Balthier?”

“My father.” She squinches her eyes as Fran works on her sling. “When I got married, he already suspected I was pregnant. He told me he wasn’t surprised; how in the end, for all my grand ideas of building a career, had ended up doing what he’d figured I’d end up doing anyway, except I’d sold myself much shorter than my worth.” 

Fran holds her arm carefully as she ties the pieces together over Claire’s chest, studying her face.

“He had me eating out of his palm. I didn’t even consider my options, because I wanted Balthier so badly. I never really knew him, although I thought I did at first; in him I saw myself, and believed we were the same. It turns out,” she says, staring at her free hand, “we were not.”

Fran tucks her dagger back into its slot on the armour on her thigh, then sits back, listening.

“Then when Snow was born, he was all that mattered.” Her smile is quirky for the pain. “I feel like somewhere along the ride, I failed us.”

Fran remembers Balthier’s face seven years ago in the Whitecap, the sultry expression in his eyes as he was staring at Fran’s neck. He felt abandoned, unloved, Claire focusing on everything else but him. Fran wonders if things would be different between them if Claire hadn’t fallen so head over heels in love with her children. Or were Snow her first real love?

Fran stares at the water as it flows between rocks, finding whichever way the creek will take it.

“That strange night that was my wedding, I told you I wasn’t sorry. I know now that was an awful thing of me to say, considering the impact the two of you were on each other’s lives back then.” She snickers as she says it, but there is no humour in her stare as she looks at Fran. “I can’t seem to get rid of you, Fran.” 

Fran’s ears are getting warm. She looks for words, but before she finds them, Claire laughs. “But as it appears, you tried to get rid of me first!”

Fran does not find this funny. “I would never put you in a situation I did not believe you could handle, Claire, as I never would with Snow.”

Claire’s laugh reduces to a sigh. “Relax, Fran. Gods, Balthier told me your humour was as dry as Archadian Vermut. I see now what he meant.”

“You killed that Kaiser Wolf before it could hurt you”, Fran says, trying to steer the conversation in a different direction. “That was skillful. You give yourself much too little credit.”

“You sound just like Balther”, Claire says in a tone that should imply a smile, but her expression remains straight. “He always says I can be more. He does not understand how I only want to be accepted for what I am.” 

Her eyes conveys a bittersweetness, self blame, even anger, but there is something else: That hint of blame directed at Fran, or, a blame directed at what Fran represents to her: An alien creature so unlike herself, having saved kingdoms and fought monsters, a woman who knew her husband before she did. A woman now teaching Claire’s children of weapons and magicks. 

Fran feels like an intruder now more than ever. She questions whether it was right or not to make Snow such a pivotal part of her life. _He needed me_ , she thinks, believing Claire and Balthier would never have handed over the tutoring of their son to just about anyone. Still - a different hunter might have done the same job; it would have been worth a try. Fran didn’t have to be their first option. 

In this moment, she is mad at Balthier for asking her to work with Snow, mad at both Balthier and Claire for pulling her back into a conflict that belongs to the past. She does not want to dwell on what has been settled years ago. What is done is done, it can not and will not be reversed.

She knows now, that she has been trying to hold on to something that is not hers to hold.

“Snow is nearing ready”, she says, her voice hoarse. “Will you let him go to Rabanastre soon?”

Claire sighs. “Why is it so that I find my entire life consists of having to choose between two evils?”

“If it is any comfort”, Fran murmurs, “I have asked myself the same thing.”

There is no empathy or pity in Claire’s gaze, but there is something else: A sense of understanding.

“It’s time, is it not?” Claire says. 

Fran nods, breathless. “Yes.”

“All right. He might go this season. I will start looking into arrangements.” She looks down at her arm. “At least I tried. I tried something different, and look where it got me.” She stands up slowly, biting her lip for the pain in her arm. “Let’s get going. I want to go home to my babies.”

¨

Claire might not be skilled with swords and machines, having fought for kingdoms or having a desire to take over a House, but there is something in which she will always be first.

“Mommy!” Fira yells as she runs towards her mother, coming to a full stop as she sees the sling. Her jaw drops completely. “What happened to you?!”

Claire bends down and stretches out her other arm for her, pulling her close. “Just a minor accident, love. I’ll be fine.” Fira holds out her hand as if touching the air around the fabric. “Does it hurt?” 

Claire kisses her forehead. “Not much.” 

Fira looks at her. “Wait here.” She turns to run back inside the house. “Right here!” she shouts.

As Claire and Fran unloads their gear onto the front porch of the house, Balthier slouches out through the front door, hands in his pockets. At the sight of Claire’s arm, he cocks an eyebrow. “Well well”, he says, putting a hand on her healthy arm to move her slightly so he can see, clearly amused. “Did Fran drag you into a Wyrm hole?”

“Claire shot a Kaiser Wolf”, Fran says as Snow shows up around the corner. “Where?” Snow says as he crosses his arms and leans to the railing of the porch. “Right through the eye”, Claire grins. “Huh”, Snow says. “Didn’t think you had it in you.”

Fira almost runs down Serpent on her way through the door, clenching something behind her back. She grins cheekishly at her mother, then holds out the toy she made earlier the same day.

“Whenever I am sick I get a present”, she beams. “Here’s yours!”

Claire stares at the chocobo for several moments, slowly softening completely. “It’s the finest present I ever received”, she mutters as she accepts it. “Thank you.” She hugs Fira with her free arm, then kisses her on the cheek. “It’s even got a beak!”

“Of course it’s got a beak”, Fira exclaims. “It’s Thormod! And now I’ll have to make Odin for your birthday!” She immediately places a hand over her mouth, her siblings laughing at her expense.

Claire strokes hair away from her daughters face. “What say you we read the long book tonight?”

Children scattered just as fast as they showed up, Fran aligns the arrows and bolts on the porch railing to clean them. Balthier leans against the wall, watching her, puzzled.

“Claire is considering letting Snow go to Rabanastre”, Fran says, eyes fixated on the arrow she is wiping.

“This fall?”

Fran nods.

“That’s only three weeks away.”

For nearly two years she has spent a day of almost every weekend tutoring his son. She has to let him go - maybe she will see him in Rabanastre now and then. _It is for the best_ , Fran thinks. Snow will be fine, that is all that matters. She wants him to have this.

“He is ready.”

Balthier’s eyes sinks to the wooden floor of the porch, suddenly looking vulnerable. “I guess he is.”

¨

Later the same day, Snow and Fran sit on the stone fence near the open space where he usually practices his targeting. They’ve been working on the augments he tried making earlier. Snow does not yet know he will be allowed to leave soon - Claire wants to make sure he has an apprenticeship before sharing the news. Fran still has a strange feeling he knows something is going on.

“I don’t understand my mother. She worries overmuch about my siblings and I, sometimes it feels like she’s choking me, and I yell at her. Then she shows a terrible temper towards my father. Behind closed doors, of course. ” Fran listens with interest, and feels oddly ashamed by doing so.

“Even the name they gave me suggests I should lay in cover for the cold that might hurt me. I was always protected.” He snickers. “Which is probably why I turned out so wrong.

“I have seen wrong, Snow. You are not. ”

“They never shared anything with me, but rather shrugged it off, saying I was as wanted as water in the desert. But I don’t think I was planned. I’ve looked at the dates, and I’m fairly sure I was conceived before their wedding.”

Fran doesn’t respond. This is turning into a conversation she does not want to take part in.

“You know something about this”, he says. “Tell me.”

Fran shifts uncomfortably. “Your suspicions regarding their wedding are true.”

Snow chews on his lip. “They decided to get married because of me, didn’t they.”

Fran’s jaw clenches. “They married because they wanted to raise you as man and wife.”

Snow’s eyes are a piercing blue and grey, resembling his father’s. “I heard them argue years ago, when I was little; they thought I couldn’t hear them. There used to be a photograph of you and that old ship of his in my father’s office. The day after their argument it was gone.” 

The boy is relentless, Fran thinks, stubborn like Balthier, both with the same knack for taking liberties regarding her.

“Tell me, Fran. My mother was not first woman my father loved, was she.”

Fran is a master of appearing unaffected, and for this, she is grateful. She needs to lie, is her first reaction, but she is a terrible liar. She also despises it. If there is one thing Fran dislikes as much as stagnation, it is dishonesty. How can a person navigate the land when the map is untrue? 

So instead she chooses the next best thing: To leave the lie unspoken. 

“You are too young to have learned not every arrow needs to be fired” she mutters, then stands to walk away.

Snow’s voice is pained. “Did you love him?”

Fran halts, contemplating her words very carefully. “Snow, I cared enough for your father to give him the life I always knew he wanted, the one he could not have with me. If that is not to give someone life, and thus love, I do not know.”

But he will not let her be at that, the damn kid. “Why didn’t you want him?” 

Fran turns. In this moment, the boy resembles his father too much, being the same age Balthier was when she first met him. His eyes are pleading, in them a desperation for knowing, an honest wish hard to leave unfulfilled.

“I just told you”, she says, aggravated, but at that he shakes his head. “Was my father not good enough for you?” There’s words here left unspoken; _am I not good enough for you_? The boy reflects his own self worth in Balthier. He is craving this information for his self image.

Fran closes her eyes. Humes, youth in particular, can truly be pesky. She wants him to let this go. “What answer would you have me give, Snow?”

He looks at her stubbornly. “A simple yes or no might do.”

“Snow, your father and I had flown for years, we knew each other inside out. He was the person dearest to me for years. Do you really think me finding him insignificant to be what kept us from being something more?” She says the words light as air, realising their significance first when they are spoken. 

Fran feels shame then. She never should have indulged in this pointless conversation with him, and she wishes she had left earlier this afternoon. She feels aged, time-worn; a disturber of the peace. 

“I am sorry, Snow. I do not wish to hurt you. I think it is best if we stick to our taks. I will only end up causing you pain, with or without my own self awareness.”

As she looks at him, she expects him to be put off, repulsed even, by Fran admitting her love for his sire. But his expression is open, grateful; relieved. 

“Fran, you’re not hurting me. It’s rather the opposite - you are the only person who dares speaking the truth around here.” He bends to pick up his Vieran bow. “I can see why he could never forget you.”

Like a dog shaking off the sand after a fight, he appears unaffected. He hops down from the wall, pulls out an arrow and stands to aim for his practice target. Fran stands still in the exact spot, watching him as he pulls back and lets go. 

He hits the target right in the center. “Hah! Nice shot, huh?” he says.

 _Humes and their damn need to fire_ , Fran thinks; _their damn need to fire, and their damn aim_.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was tricky to write and might be even trickier to read. I don't want to say things straight out, yet I want it to 'feel clear' as it's read.
> 
> lol poor Cockatrices. Okay I think I've had my revenge on them now.


	9. Blindfiring

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Parts of this chapter was written eons ago, when I first started writing this story. These parts have all been reworked, but I see now I haven't been able to boot the melodrama completely, so be prepared for some Anger and Dramatics. It's one of those things I will change when I do my Remaster (lol).

 

Fran agrees to take Snow to Rabanastre to settle in for his apprenticeship, but it is a promise she must break. There is news from Jahara.

She has made this trip many times, but never with this clenching feeling in her gut. Slightly less steadily than usual she prepares the Bucket for landing. “He never should have left without us”, Louis says as he leans back in the passenger seat, for the occasion wearing a shirt. “Clearly it was you and I that kept him alive.” Fran does not offer him a response, she has no patience for Louis this morning. She knows it’s his way of asking for attention, and it is not Louis she wants to keep her mind on this day.

Reaching the entrance to the village, they notice the number of Garif normally present has multiplied by at least four. “For a Garif deciding to stay outside Garif land, he sure had a lot of friends”, Louis says. “While he did once leave, you are forgetting he was set on returning”, Fran reminds him. “Aye, and look what happened to him.”

Fran can’t make herself argue. Gumalu had made it to Jahara, spending a few days there, before heading out. He’d ended up suffering major injuries from an encounter with a Giant Aeros while crossing the Lazus Plains, trying to get to one of the other Garif villages - one inhabiting female members of the Garif race. He was found by Garif travellers, but not in time to save his life. Two days later he arrived in Jahara on a stretcher, his last breath drawn as they crossed the Ozmone.

“I can’t for the life of me figure out why he’d trek that far just for some --”

“Don’t”, Fran cuts him off.

The village has been carefully decorated in flowers of yellow and blue to honour the life that has been lost. Fran and Louis are two of a handful of people present not belonging to the Garif race: There’s a couple of Nu Mou’s and a Viera wood-warder, the latter nodding silently to Fran. Walking through the village, Fran greets old friends, holding up her hand to her chest as a token of mourning. Not many words are spoken - it is an old custom to save any words for after the burial.

Reaching the Elderknoll, they see Gumalu laying on his wooden stretcher in the center of a circle of stones, draped in brown leather, his body covered in flowers. Fran swallows as they near the circle. She has lost friends before, but with Gumalu she rarely needed words - for never having seen his face, she felt closer to him than all the other hunters of Buckaboo. 

The ceremony is soft and simple, the tribe elders saying their prayers and words of memory. Their words focus on his earlier days, the days he spent in the village. _He was a son having returned for his home, to find his roots, to plant his seed, and now he is no longer with us_ , the High-Chief speaks in the common Garif tongue, which Fran learned when she spent years with the Garif.

They all walk towards the burial place, Gumalu carried by his brothers. This is not the first Garif funeral Fran has attempted, but it is Louis’. “What are the straps for?” he whispers as they walk, referring to the leather bands wrapped around the horns of Gumalu’s mask. “The Garif wears their mask from birth to death as a symbol of their struggles above ground”, Fran explains. “When they die, they are freed of their burdens, and so they are freed of their mask.” “Oh”, Louis responds, suddenly intrigued.

The Garif lay the stretcher down next to Gumalu’s grave-to-be, the crowd gathering silently around. The quiet is complete as the elder speaks the final blessing. He speaks in one of the older tongues, one Fran never learned to the fullest - she understands bits and pieces; about wearing a mask while walking the surface, and of your true presence only being known to the Gods and your brothers.

“...and so, having served the earth, we now return you to the ground”, he elder speaks in the common tongue. The stretcher is then slowly lowered into the ground by four Garif, each holding a rope simply pulled through hooks on each corner of the stretcher. _Farewell, old friend_ , Fran thinks as Gumalu’s body slowly disappears out of sight. As the stretcher touches ground, the brothers simultaneous lets go of one end of their rope, pulling them up slowly, the ropes then carefully folded together. One brother joins the Garif holding the straps tied to the mask - then they both start pulling. Louis lets out a sigh of disappointment.

“So now what”, he whispers as the brothers pull. “The mask is to go to the person whose name is carved inside it”, Fran says. “The mask is a token of life, but also of burdens, of lessons learned. It is a symbol of the knowledge its bearer collected during their lifetime, now to be passed on to whoever he feels worthy of it.”

“Straight to the point, even in death”, Louis says. 

“With the Garif, nothing comes without bonds. Even life is a present lent for a certain amount of time. They believe us all to just be part of one giant wheel of life”, she adds, “just like the Viera.”

The two Garif holds up the mask for the High-Chief. Her surprise is obvious when the three of them all turn to look at Fran.

She doesn’t know why Gumalu chose her, but she can’t and neither does she want to to protest, so she holds out her arms for the mask, touching Gumalu’s face in a way she never did when he was alive. She prays for Louis to hold his tongue as he stares at the mask. Thankfully he does.

“Thank you”, Fran speaks in their old tongue, noticing a few Garif whispering in the far back.

She stares down into the empty holes that was once Gumalu’s eyes, and wishes he didn’t leave this for her. It appears he wanted to tell her something - most likely something about the importance of leaving, or is it the importance of returning? She can not be sure, and is left only to wonder.

“You have to find your own way back to Balfonheim, Louis”, she tells the ex-Rozarrian. “I made a promise to a friend.”

¨

When she reaches Balthier’s house, it appears to be empty. But as Fran tries a knock on the door, she hears Serpent’s footsteps approaching. “Hey”, she says in the doorway, her face lighting up at the sight of Fran. “Come in.”

“Mother took Snow and Fira on the ferry”, she continues as Fran tilts her ears to follow her into the house. “It’s just me and father. _Unbelievable!_ ”

Balthier sits by the dinner table, the chandelier above it lit, maps spread out everywhere. He signals a hello to her with one hand.

“Snow wondered if you could take the weapons in the shed for him the next time you’re in ‘Raster, it was too much to take on the ferry”, Serpent says, going to get Fran a glass of fruit juice. Fran sits down by the table, staring at the maps.

“Are you alright?” Balthier asks, studying her face.

She looks at him, and isn’t sure.

“He was a good friend. He will be missed. Thank you”, she tells Serpent as the girl hands her the drink.

Fran sips her fruit juice, looking at the maps. It appears Serpent is making her own version of one of the older maps, putting in details from one of the newer ones, seemingly a print from one of the shops at Rabanastre.

“Serpent likes her maps”, Balthier says as he watches his daughter meticulously draw lines onto the paper. “She wants to venture out and map up areas that aren’t drawn up yet.”

“Fran has probably seen more than you”, Serpent says the way a fifteen year old girl talks to her father, glaring at him.

Balthier looks at Fran, bits of white teeth showing. “Aye, she probably has.” As Fran’s reply of a smile lingers, so does his gaze.

Serpent pulls out a map from under the one she’s copying, holding it out to Fran.

“Then maybe you know - what lies beneath this Mist?”

Fran clears her throat. “Nobody knows.”

“So it’s like unexplored territory then.”

“I guess so.”

“So why hasn’t anyone been there yet?”

Fran and Balthier both shrug. “The price might not be worth the risk”, Balthier says.

“So this Mist might be hiding all sorts of potential wonders, a haven. Full of unexplored treasure, maybe a rich vein of magicite ore. Yet nobody is willing to risk it.” She grimaces. “That sounds rather dumb. What’s the worst that could happen?”

Balthier laughs. “Well, I guess the journey could kill you.”

“Air travel could also kill you”, his daughter parries. “And the flu. Chocobos, even. Odin is being quite vicious these days, it could be him kicking my head in one day.”

“Gumalu travelled”, Fran says quietly. “His quest led to his death.”

Father and daughter both turn to her, their expressions similar.

“Yet I wonder why he did, why he was so intent on seeking a spouse. All these Garif, trekking across the plains - for what.” She exhales, staring at the map in front of her, the great blob of Mist covering the area. “Clearly there are things I have yet to learn.”

There is a silence. Serpent fiddles with her pen, Balthier appears to be watching her again - probably with compassion, Fran guesses, and wishes he didn’t. He is starting to irritate her.

Fran looks up at him and has her suspicions confirmed. “I brought you something”, she says, to take her mind off everything and onto anything else. “It’s in the ship.”

“I’m taking Fran for a walk”, Balthier tells Serpent, as if Fran was a pet Cockatrice to take out on a leash. His daughter nods, her eyes, grey and comfortably cool this time, beaming at her as Fran gets up from her chair. “You said I could go to Ferris’ house”, she asks her father. “Sure”, her sire says, “just be back by seven.”

¨

They walk silently down towards the Bucket, Balthier’s hands folded behind his back, Fran still deep in thought. Having fetched what she came for, she exits the ship and plots the code for the door to shut. She holds out the package for him.

“What is this?” he asks.

“Open it.”

He unwraps the paper, grinning at its contents. “A-ha.” He laughs. “I told you I’m not supposed to be doing this, however you picked the precise day. Claire is staying in Rabanastre over night, and Serpent is unfamiliar with the smell to notice it on my clothes.” He grimaces. “Well, she _should_ at least.”

“Nobody’s forcing you”, Fran says, sliding a pipe out of her pouch, holding it out for him. “You would, however, be keeping me company in a pipe of respect and memory. He was a leaf enjoyer just as I.” Balthier beams as he accepts it.

They walk towards a grass patch a few hundred yards from the back of the house, a nice little spot surrounded by carefully greened trees. Balthier sits cross-legged in the soft grass, Fran opposite him, watching him carefully crush the dried up leaves, the operation unfamiliar to his fingers for eighteen years. With great devotion he carefully packs her pipe, his demeanor starting to resemble the young man he was at twenty-one, when smoking was a weekly activity. When he is done, he hands the pipe to Fran, who casts the tiniest amount of Fire, delicate smoke soon curling up towards the afternoon sky. 

She offers him the first draw, he declines; she insists. He puts the pipe to his lips and inhales deeply. He holds in the smoke, his face slowly turning blissful. He looks at the pipe, nodding, still holding in the smoke.

“This is good stuff.”

Fran grins and takes the pipe as he exhales the gentle, grey smoulder. “It is my pleasure to share it with someone who truly appreciate it.”

“It’s been a while, for sure”, Balthier murmurs, his movements turning lazy. His eyes narrow as his lips curls into a satisfied smile, and Fran hands him the pipe for another draw, to which he sighs deeply. 

He keeps the pipe in the corner of his mouth as he clumsily removes his shoes, moaning loud at the feel of grass tickling his feet. Fran scratches her nose, snorting, one ear starting to drop to the side. She knows at least eight reasons why all of this is a bad idea, but she appears unable to remember any of them.

An hour later they are lying on their back in the grass, feet pointing in opposite directions, their heads next to each other.

“Wolf”, Balthier calls as he points to the sky. Fran doesn’t look too hard for the next shape. Sky animals must come to you, they cannot be found by intention alone. It is a rule they established years ago. “Mhm. Calf”, she murmurs. 

He chuckles. “Calf?” 

“Yes?” 

“When did baby animals count as --” he coughs “-- animals?”

“Okay fine then” she says, voice slurred. “Cow.”

“It no longer resembles neither calf nor cow.”

She pats on the pipe. “Okay. Coeurl.”

He laughs. “I think you have to make that a snake now.”

She squinches her eyes. “A snake with a Wyrm on its head.”

“Too many words”, he says, massaging his eyes. “Stop talking.”

Fran sighs content, watching the clouds as they slowly swirl before her eyes, smoke curling from the pipe as she holds it aristocratically to the side. “I tried teaching him this game, but he was never any good at it.”

Balthier rolls over to his side, propping up on one elbow, head supported in his palm as he studies her. He sighs as the smoke snirkles its way through his system, eyes drowsy as he watches her.

She knows where his free hand is going the instant she hears it lifting from the grass. 

“Balthier”, she warns, but his grin is smoke-dazed as his hand reaches for her ear.

“Balth --” his fingers has reached the soft tip of her nearest ear, his finger stealing a touch as Fran flips over to her stomach, the claws on the hand not holding the pipe grabbing for his. It barely escapes.

“Stop that”, she slurs, trying to appear insulted, but he only laughs, his free hand reaching out again.

“What is this, children’s games?” she calls, amused. 

Finally he gives up, holding out his hand as a request for the pipe. “Did you not just demonstrate you have had enough?” she says, still she hands it over. He closes his eyes as he draws from the pipe, then flips to lie on his back, smoke rising above his face as he blows.

“A young man’s fancy”, he says.

“What?” Fran says, resting her head on her crossed arms, still on her stomach.

“Your ears.”

Fran snorts. “Ears was not all you wanted.”

“I can not be blamed for wanting you, Fran. I don’t think any man can.”

She frowns. “That was it, then? A pretty shell for your collection?”

He laughs. “Are you fishing for compliments, dear?”

“Oh, ‘dear’ am I now?”

“You always were.”

The smoke has softened him. Fran frowns lazily at his honesty, Balthier still laying content on his back, one knee propped up, holding the pipe.

“All right.”

“Mm?” He wiggles his knee slowly from side to side.

“You may touch them.”

Balthier’s eyes opens to watch her as she tilts her head forward. Still on his back, he slowly reaches his free hand over his chest to gently close close his thumb and index finger around the softness of the widest part of one ear.

“These things are strange”, he murmurs. Fran is slightly uneasy by having someone’s hands on her ear, but Balthier is the one person she would trust to do so. “I always liked them, sticking out far above your head, as if you weren’t tall enough already standing next to a Hume male.” He plays with the softness of the ear, his thumb lightly stroking the thin, fluffy hairs. “They remind me of the skin at the back of someones neck - the hair there is soft as this.”

Fran quiets, finding she is relaxing. She likes the feel of his touch, the way his fingers tests the feel of her ear. Not since she was a child, what seems like eons ago, has she enjoyed the caress of these sensitive areas of her physicality. She closes her eyes, her breathing slowing.

“You seem to enjoy this”, he says. “I didn’t expect you to. You were always so sensitive about your ears.”

“Someone went too hard on them once”, she murmurs.

“A lover?” he suggests, jokingly, yet obviously curious.

“No.”

His hand moves further up the ear, flipping the softest part at the tip back and forth with his thumb. “I always had the feeling there are many things you never told me.”

Fran pauses. “You are not mistaken.”

“Huh.” The length of his fingers runs up the backside of the ear, causing a pleasant tingling sensation running down her neck. “You knew almost all there was to know about me, and I guess I had this faulty assumption that I knew most there was to know about you. How many more secrets have you kept from me?”

Fran provides him with no response.

“Fran”, Balthier says.

“Mhm”, Fran replies.

There is mist lingering, but it is not the smoke from the pipe. Fran’s ears appears to be an instrument of Immobilize - especially when paired with the finest of Jaharian. Her reactions are too slow. Through her leaf-haze she registers how Balthier is leaning halfway over on his side, moving closer, too close for a man who belongs to someone else. His hand leaves her ear to suddenly be placed on her cheek, his fingers sliding into her hair. Even by this touch she is too slow to understand the significance of his actions. It is not until he tilts her cheek gently his way and she feels his warm breath against her lips she understands what he is attempting.

“No”, she whispers. Balthier freezes, but does not pull away. 

Fran’s hearing appears to have sharpened; she hears a bird chirping in a tree, in the distance, the soft buzzing of a bee. Her eyes breaks open to meet his, surprised to find a man that in spite of his stubbornness, looks broken. For a man of barely forty, he looks old, looking to have lost something - someone. It is a pointless sorrow, Fran thinks. This man should not be grieving anything.

Broken, yet undefeated: His fingers pulls back to have his hand placed firmly around her cheek, then he moves in to kiss her again, this time far more determined.

“No!” Fran says again, placing a hand over his mouth to push him away.

His stare is furious. With clumsiness caused by the leaf he gets up to his feet, looking at her with disbelief and disgust. 

“Do not look at me like that”, Fran says as she sits up. He turns his back to her, knuckles placed on his hips. “You belong to someone else, Balthier!”

“I know!” he shouts. “You think I bumped my head sometimes during the last few minutes and forgot?”

“Then you know as well as I that this is not right!”

He looks about to explode, but instead he scoffs. “No Fran, I know it’s not right, but I can’t help it.” He pauses, touches his forehead, pinches it.

“What do _you_ want, Fran? Did you ever know?”

Fran can provide no answer to his question.

He shakes his head. “Forget it, not important. Do you know what you want _now,_ Fran?” He glares at her. “Do you? Will you be taking hunts and smoking leaf forever?”

She has no answer to this question either.

Fran looks down. The bees are still buzzing, birds chirping as they always have, always will. New birds bred and born, replacing the older as they turn to prey, a continuous cycle while the Viera in the Woods remains.

“Fran”, Balthier says. “I need to ask you a question, and I need you to answer it truthfully. None of that avoidance you usually cough up when you don’t wish to answer. It’s the only way I can find peace about this.”

Fran is speechless to do anything but nod.

“Did you…” He shifts his weight, stares at the grass, shaking his head, a vulnerability to him Fran remembers seeing in him more frequent in his younger days than his older. “Did you… ever want me?”

This question Fran does not _want_ to answer. For the truth is, Fran knows now she did want Balthier. She did not, however, want him to stay in an airship all his life, Fran, hunters and monsters his only company, slowly aging while Fran barely did, a constant reminder of how he was once a young man, and, eventually, a reminder of what he had missed. She instead wanted for him to have Snow, Serpent and Fira, wanted him to feel their warm breaths on his cheek and trilling laughter in his ear, for him to comfort them when they’d fallen and hit their knees, to tuck them into bed after chasing away the monsters under their beds. She wished for him a woman to share his bed, then later his grave; not some shadow of a shell visiting his tomb for years and years to come. She wished all this for him, all this which he has had. It is unfair of him to try to wring out of her how she might have wanted to deny him all of this because of a fleeting moment of stirred emotions, of his lust. What kind of life would Balthier and Fran have had? A pirate life, rum late in the afternoon, hunts, marks - a good time, no doubt, but he would never have had a full Hume life.

Fran has swore to answer his question, and so, as the idiot Viera she is, with her too many years, she cannot bring herself to lie.

“If this is what you ask of me, no matter what pain it will cause, then I will answer.” Lying or not, her answer will still pain them both; there is nothing good to come of this, yet Balthier nods slowly, his expression nearing tortured. Why does he want this? Why does he want to trouble himself over this? Why this agony over what never was and never would have been? There is only one answer to this, Fran thinks: Balthier is Hume. He doesn’t know his own best interest. Fran is in no position to deny him the pain he so dearly wants.

The wind ruffles the leaves in the trees nearby. She stares at her knees. 

“Yes”, she whispers, the wind taking her words with it.

“Yes”, she says again, this time loud enough there is no way he could have missed it, lifting her gaze to face his reaction.

But save for his head slightly tilting, Balthier’s expression is unreadable. It is all and nothing at the same time.

“Is this what you wanted?” she breathes. She feels tired.

He looks up towards the sky. “Why?”

“For you”, she says.

His eyes turns back to her, quizzical.

“I gave you life, Balthier. I gave you Claire. Snow. The girls. You would have had none of that with me.”

He looks at her in astonishment. His mouth opens, then closes shut. He makes a sound, strangled before developing into anything resembling a word.

She expects anything but what happens next: He smiles at her, then looks at her with what she finds unable to describe: That which makes something raise from her stomach to her head.

“Oh Fran.”

Fran sits quietly in the grass, frowns.

“Did you never stop and think about what _I_ want?” His words are mild, his gaze no longer holding anger.

“Whatever you wanted wouldn’t be right for you”, she says, but it is with doubt she speaks, like her words is spoken by someone else. 

Another chuckle. “Fran, why did you leave the Wood?”

“To be free.”

“No”, he says, “what made you leave? To be free, yes, but what did you feel that morning you gathered your belongings to step through the gate?”

“I did not belong”, she breathes.

“But you were just as much Viera as your sisters. Clearly there must have been something else that made you leave to never return - you knew you would never return.”

“It was _right_ ”, she says, and feels like her own words has tripped her.

Balthier smiles. “Do you see it now?”

“Children”, she parries.

“Orphans”, he says. “Animals, Malboros, airships, plants.” He smiles softly. “Besides, I don’t believe anything presented to my ears until I have tried.” Jaharian never made her feel this breathless, as if her body was dematerializing by itself. For a brief moment she imagines herself wrapped in Balthier’s arms in a bed on the Strahl, their legs entangled, a Malboro slavering by the end of the bed, the cockpit behind them, nothing but blue skies ahead.

“I want you”, he says, and looks twenty-two again. “Let me try, Fran, to be that man. The one who can make you smile - without the use of leaf.”

“Gods, Balthier”, she yells, “Gods, no, this is madness, it is over and done with, you have Claire, Fira, no don’t touch me”, she says as he steps towards her, leaping to her feet. Standing up, she is taller than him, her ears making her more so. His smile fades, his eyes grown cold. “It is”, he says, “a trap I walk willingly into, and perhaps I will keep doing so until the end of my time.”

“I will leave”, she says. “I will leave and stay away.”

His eyes find grass, his hands find his waist, clumsily.

“Goodbye”, she says, and turns before he can look at her again. Every step she takes back to the Bucket hurts, but she believes it will only last for so long; it always only lasts for so long.

She wishes for someone to scream into her ears, anything to take her mind off the last few moments and the images they created in her mind. But all she is left with is the soft hum of her airship, once comforting, now annoyingly quiet. To her surprise she leans back and sings, loud, the first words of the first song she can think of. _Come all, wet your lips on Bhujerban Madhu_ she yells into the echo of her cockpit. _The finest there is, I promise you this -_ the silent sky stares blankly back at her - _no girl can say no to a bottle or two_ \- she defies the silence, defies the void, defies everything that would be sensible or safe - and shouts - _when she cries for more then you know what to do!_

Reaching Balfonheim she goes straight for the Whitecap and its board. She skims the texts of the few bills posted, picks the toughest one and heads out. She needs to rid herself of this memory, it can do no good.

¨

Entering the Whitecap one afternoon a few weeks later, mud on her boots, broken arrows in her quiver, it at first seems to be like any other time she’s done so - but then she notices the stares sent her way. She halts, looking at the two hunters at the board, the Innkeeper behind the counter, three of her fellow clansmen freezing their cups mid-air, Louis shooting her a half done smile and a glare from where he’s standing by the wall.

“What?” she breathes, worried for more bad news.

“Something… arrived for you.” The Innkeeper hands her a letter, Fran frowning on how a letter can cause so many stares. She accepts the envelope, nothing written on it on the front but her name. She recognizes Balthier’s handwriting the moment she pulls out the sheet of paper, her stomach turning as she starts to read.

_Dear Fran,_

_I am writing this to thank you for everything you have done for Snow - and for me. I am sorry for how things ended the last time we spoke, but all I ever wanted was for you to find peace. In our days of partnership you would often gaze out at sea and sky, for being free of the Wood still seeking something, needing something, however unable to find it. I wanted to give you this something, Fran. I wanted to make you happy._ _But I could not give you what you sought, I could not set you free. Instead I took the Strahl from you, stupid as I was, my pride hurt and my heart broken, an act which to this day is the one thing in my life I regret the most. I left you grounded, when all you ever wanted to do was fly. It is way overdue I repent for this crime. I hope this gift will help you fly closer to what it is you might seek, and I hope you one day find it. You were always so fond of her, and she is very special to me as she was, after all, what led you to me._

_Yours, always._

Fran lifts her gaze from the letter, staring at Louis, knowing what has arrived for her.

¨

The large doors to the hangar creaks as they are being opened by Louis and two other Balfonheimers - a handful more has followed to the docks, curious for a peek. As the doors part and the light of day slips in through the roof, Fran’s eyes are blended by the sight, her stomach turning, a painful lump growing in it since they left the Whitecap minutes ago. 

She hasn’t seen the old wench for years. She has been repainted in a different coat and modified slightly, but Fran has spent so many hours both inside and outside this ship she recognizes the Strahl immediately.

“The transformed Archadian fighter prototype”, Louis muses as he walks towards the airship. “This is your old ship.”

Fran remains where she stands in the doorway. “Yes.”

“Well”, he says, glaring at the airship, then her. “Don’t you want to see what it looks like inside?”

 _Not really_ she thinks, moments later finding herself slow motioning through the hangar, climbing the stairs as she has so many times before. Her stomach knits again as she tilts her ears forward to enter through the front door. The ship has been repainted on the insides as well, there’s a door where there previously was none, and she feels worn down - but it’s the same ship, even wearing the same, familiar smell, making Fran queasy.

She pauses as she spots the doors to the two small bedrooms.

“Huh”, Louis says, peeking into the room that used to be Balthier’s. “I have no idea why anyone would put more walls into such already cramped space.”

“Privacy”, Fran mumbles, peeking into the room, wondering if Balthier’s intention was to keep himself out of her private space, or her out of his. There are ghosts in these walls, she thinks, and she does not think she can stay here much longer. Her eyes wander to stare at the mattress that was once Balthier’s bed.

“He used to talk in his sleep, that might have been why.”

“What?” Louis says, hands braced in the doorway to the cockpit as he glances it over.

“He would mumble sentences I could not understand. I would watch him, wanting to ask him who he was talking to. I wondered where he was, what it looked and smelled like, this world he was finding himself in. I wanted to be there with him, because his world was always so much more alive than mine. And he always had room for me.”

Louis quiets as he turns to look at her. He grimaces.

The scent of the ship is too strong, old smells mixed with new and unfamiliar ones; Fran feels unwell. She leans into the wall, the ground seeming to open up beneath her, swallowing her whole. It’s like she’s finally awoken from a long slumber, and prefers now she was still asleep. She replays Balthier’s words over and over in her head: _Orphans_. _Animals, Malboros, airships, plants. I don’t believe anything presented to my ears until I have tried._

A home. With her. 

She wants to ask him if this was a wish he carried back when they were flying, or if it’s one he believes he would have developed over time. There are so many things she wants to ask him - but it’s too late. She has rejected her partner for the very last time.

She looks at Louis, and knows she has become the empty shell people see, the stoic Viera who, even for leaving her birthland in desperation to be free, still remains a shadow gliding by in the background, arrows tucked away safely in their container.

She can no longer hear the Green Word, and it would appear she is also blind. Leaving the Strahl she knows she will never be taking her to the skies.

¨

In the building adjacent to the Whitecap, Fran is finding it impossible to sleep. The moonlight slips in between the curtains, its rays of light bathing the room in an eerie, silver light. She tosses to her side, eyes opening to stare into a dim face. In the corner of the room Gumalu’s mask sits on a chair, quietly watching her, its narrow, almond shaped eyes glaring at her in the dark.

 _He is gone_ , Fran thinks. _He is dead. It doesn’t matter how it was always his mask you addressed, and not his true face. Your friend is dead, gone wherever Garif go when they die._

Fran watches the giant horns stretching out in the darkness. He is gone, yet somehow still here.

 _It is the proper conclusion_ , the mask replies. _I am dead_. _Yet somehow you imagine I am alive in this very moment. Is it for wanting me alive? Or for something else?_

“I never wanted Gumalu to die”, she says, the sound of her own voice startling her.

_You pretend he is alive, and you refuse to fly. Why do you refuse to fly, Fran?_

“The Strahl was never my freedom”, she says. “I freed myself.”

 _Did you,_ the mask says.

“You are but a mask, a thing dead. You will remain quiet.”

_Shadows never quiet, Fran. They are, like you, unable to lie._

“Be silent”, she whispers.

_You were never free, Fran. You never freed yourself from the Wood. You remain there still, bow well strung._

“I choose my targets carefully. I never shoot simply to waste arrows.”

_Yes, the targets you yourself can see. What of the targets spotted by the eyes of others, the targets to which you are blind? Surely you can not keep track of every target available in the wood?_

“I trust my senses”, she says. “They have not failed me yet.”

_Yet senses of others you do not trust._

“I trust”, Fran whispers, but knows she has failed to place hers in the only person in the world she would. She stares at the mask in the shadows; quiet, unmoving, its stillness mocking her, mirroring herself.

“Is that what you would have me do, then. To aim without target, to fire without reason.”

_It is what you left the Wood to learn, is it not? To live with heart and choice, rather than rules and limitation._

“Then I will fire”, she says, sitting up in her bed, pulling the tattered sheet around her frame. “I will fire without aim, in any direction, hoping it will free me of this agony.” She feels the tiniest tear form in her eye - tiny it must be, for Viera do not shed tears.

Louis’ face is veiled with sleep as he opens the door to this tiny, cluttered room. He stares at her as if he’d prefer punching her in the face over anything else. “Fran, what are you --”

When he rolls over to his side to sleep, she feels nothing but emptiness.

 


	10. Red feathers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so we have reached the end of our tale. Apologies for it taking so long for me to post this chapter, but believe me, I have worked on it non-stop since the last one was posted. I have fought a very hard battle to be able to present this... thing, and hopefully, it isn't terrible.
> 
> I hope you won't be disappointed. I hope it stays true to character. I hope it makes you feel something, whatever that may be. If you'd like to leave a comment I'd be very happy to read it, no matter the length or content. (Lay it on me, I mean it. I don't like being the person with a ketchup stain on my tie.)
> 
> Thank you so much for reading this story.

 

Rumours in Balfonheim has it the best Viera hunter around has gone cooky. The members of Clan Buckaboo argue over the signs of a Viera’s life coming to an end - one of them is sure to have heard that once reaching an adult age, save for the usual growing of hair and claws, Vieras’ bodies stay the same until their deaths, and so this odd behaviour might be her mental capacity coming to an end as often happens with Humes. She has grown thin, recently commissioned a new garb fit for measurements far smaller than her already meagre ones, which could be a sign of illness, another of their theories. Some say her airship was spotted up in the northern part of Cerobi, leading to a rumour that the waters there are poisoned, and for several weeks, no one dares to drink it.

“A death never upset her this much before”, one of the clan hunters grunt over his Madhu. The four of them are sharing a post-hunt meal and a drink in the Whitecap, a tradition in which Fran often used to participate. “That Garif was a close friend”, another says, “maybe she was with him the way she is now with that Rozarrian.” They all snicker, clearing their throats afterwards.

They quickly quiet as the object of their banter marches in through the front door of the tavern, silver hair bouncing around her birdlike frame, black-spotted ears peaking stubborn towards the ceiling. As they figured she would, she heads straight for the board.

“Are you trying to kill yourself?” the Bangaa named Tarantha speaks up, his voice slurred by the Madhu. The Viera barely flaps one ear to show she has heard, her distant stare travelling over the board. As she keeps looking, her red eyes darken, slowly setting in the hunter’s direction.

“You have had your laughs”, she growls. “Tell me where to find the other bills.”

“The harder hunts were all picked”, Tarantha tries, hoping his words will disguise themselves as truth enough for her to not detect the lie. Her chest expands, her ears hardening. For a few more seconds they keep pretending they know nothing, then they regain their senses.

“Ask your bedwarmer”, Tarantha mutters before returning to his Madhu, Fran barely offering him a stare as she trots off. “A Viera with a deathwish”, he yells after her. “How refreshing!”

Fran halts. “So you have finally reached your conclusion.”

The hunters pause their drinking, slightly crouching in their chairs. “All we’re saying”, Tarantha says, “is you’ve been working too hard lately. Will you not join us for a round tonight?”

She blinks slowly, her eyelashes long and full in a lean face. “No.”

“Senility”, one of the hunters whispers as the door slams shut behind her, the others snickering. “She’s clearly forgotten how much she loves to drink.”

¨

The Viera of Clan Buckaboo slips silently through the stone paved streets of Balfonheim, entering the building adjacent to the Whitecap. Her pulse throbs as she heads up the stairs to the third floor, fetching a small key from her pouch as she walks determinately down the hallway, halting by a door to unlock it.

The room is sparsely lit. The tattooed Rozarrian sits in his bed, bare chested as is his usual, a blanket tucked around his legs, a pair of unfitting academic looking glasses resting on his nose as he reads the Clans of Ivalice newsletter. “My darling untameable woman”, he says pleased as he sees her, sliding the glasses down his nose to watch her over their rim. “Have you had your fill of killing things on the steppe for some time?”

“Give me the bills, Louis.”

He has finally learned not to try a lie, yet Fran feels no joy for being spared of punishing him for his lack of attempt. Slowly he pulls the bits of paper out from under the mattress. “When will you rest, love? You have been at it for days.”

 _Love_. The word itches the way itch-leaf would. She snaps the bills out of his hand. “I suppose you will need my aid?” he says, but Fran is already on her way out. “Those are all two-man jobs at the minimum”, he tries as her hand reaches the doorknob, but Louis is left with the sound of his door slamming shut.

Fran heads down the hallway, entering her own room to again be reminded why she so often spends her nights in Louis’ instead. It’s not purely for the distraction he can provide her with - the other reason sits on a chair in the corner. Fran cannot cover him up, she cannot lock him away, nor can she sell him. The only way she has found to escape Gumalu’s blank stare is to not be in this very room.

She lights the room enough to flip through the bills, picking one, then putting it back on top of the pile. She places her hand over the bills, pressing them into the mattress. _I can not keep doing this much longer_ , she thinks, and knows what she needs to do. One last quest. It might give her the peace she craves.

¨

When Fran arrives at the docks the next morning, Louis is already preparing the Bucket. He stands up from under the ship’s wing, raising his eyebrows at what Fran has tucked under her arm. “Did you have a sudden urge to take our old friend for a ride?”

“He is coming with me”, Fran says as she heads for the ship’s entrance, “you are not.”

Louis brushes the Balfonheim sand off his knees. “You’re taking a mask on a hunt?” His grin is obnoxious. “Odds just went up for whoever has their gil on ‘lost her mind’.”

Fran walks past him, Gumalu’s horns almost hitting him in the head. “I am crossing the Lazus Plains to find the village Gumalu was seeking.”

Louis pauses mid-brush to glare at her. “Why?”

Fran halts by the entrance to the ship. “I can keep it no longer. I will leave it with his wife to be.”

Louis frowns. “He left that thing for you, does that not mean he intended for you to have it?”

“You do not care whether I keep it or not. Stop pretending you do.”

He clears his hands of sand. “She needs some care, by the way.” He nods towards the Bucket. “Will you not fly the other one instead? The Moogles says she was ready weeks ago.”

“No. She is too large.” Fran climbs the small set of stairs into the ship.

Louis shakes his head. “You’re sitting on an old Archadian fighter, yet you refuse to fly her.”

“I told you”, she says from within the ship as she stores the mask and her pouch behind the seat. “She is too large for jobs of this kind.”

“Yet take larger jobs, you will not. Even if we could use the gil.”

He receives no response but the sound of Fran arranging her equipment.

“Nor will you sell her. Imagine all the things we could do with --”

“That is enough”, Fran hisses as she looks out the door. “You have angered me enough to last the week. Take your presumptions and your driveling over my ship - ships - and go do something else for a change.”

“I am trying to look after you!” he shouts as she disappears back into the ship. “Seeing as you clearly have lost the ability to run both your finances and your health!”

There are high-pitched beeping sounds coming from the Bucket’s system.

“You are not trekking over those plains by yourself”, Louis says. “I forbid you.”

The beeping stops. “You _what_?”

“You saw what happened to the fellow who used to wear that thing.”

Sounds of heels against steel, then Fran appears in the doorway, all legs and red eyes. “Know this, Louis”, she growls, “you are not in any position to forbid me to do anything. I will go where I please, no matter what you decide to name me; your woman, your darling, your _love_.” She plots her code on the controller, the door gliding upwards until all he sees is a set of burning eyes. “And do not dare to follow me”, she warns. “I _forbid_ you.”

“Fine by me”, he shouts at the closed door. “Do as you please Viera, that is all you ever do!”

Fran prepares and steers the Bucket manually out of the hangar. The system has been in need of an overhaul for months, but all of hers and Louis’ excess gil has been put in the Strahl, under the false pretense she and Louis will fly her one day. With the Strahl now just sitting there, the sensible thing would be to sell her, but Fran is finding herself unable to part with Balthier’s gift.

For all the arrows she fires, new ones appears in her quiver. At least she is on her way to rid herself of the one tucked behind her seat.

¨

She is halfway over Lazus when the Bucket decides enough is enough. She has been neglected for too long, running on backup solutions and manual fixes, now doing her best to get rid of her rider. Fran holds the reins for as long as possible as the Bucket buckles like a Chocobo in heat. Fear punches her in the gut like a giant fist as the ship glides slowly but efficiently towards the dry, grass-covered plains covered in rocks and small trees. “Is this how you decide to end it?” she shouts as sweat drips down her forehead, the left wing catching fire to create an ugly sound resembling wind determinedly trying to tear down a house. The backup system is gone, the electric circuits cutting out one by one. Fran’s last thought is to cast Float on the entire ship, ridiculous as the idea is, but there is no time for more than a single spell: As the Bucket’s belly brushes against rock and tree, Fran is thrown towards the window, her Float not doing much to dampen the hit.

She feels beat up like a Behemoth Steak as she uses her last remaining magick to force the door open. She stands outside the ship for minutes, shielding her eyes from the cruel Lazus sun.

“I guess we go by foot” she tells Gumalu as she pulls him out of the ship, her head and body pounding. She is sure she will bruise.

¨

The Lazus plains are drier than the Ozmone, and a lot emptier. The grass she treads on is hard, short and bordering on yellow, the ground flat and uneventful save from a few patches of rock and small trees. Squinching her eyes, Fran can spot mountains in the very far distance.  There is nothing to do but walk, so she walks to the point where she forgets she is walking, her mind drifting off to a place of complete nothingness. It is a welcomed change.

She has almost forgotten there is beasts on the Lazus as well when a distant roar reminds her. “I would hate for you to experience that Giant Aeros all over again”, she mutters to the mask tied to her back.

She walks all day. Come night time she casts a notification spell, then rolls up with the mask and her pouch in between a group of trees. Her sleep is constantly broken by alien sounds. When she awakes she is more tired than she was going to sleep.

The second day she reaches an area populated by small critters: Plain Foxes mostly. She fends off the few that approaches her, presenting no real threat; the snake, however, curling up next to her as she sits on a warm rock to skin a fox, turns out to be. She feels the sting of Poison hit her as she punctures its neck with her claw, then she remembers Louis usually carries their curatives.

“Careless”, she mutters, looking at the mask resting on the rock next to her. “I have grown careless.”

More days and nights pass, Fran constantly casting Cure against Poison, constantly walking to regain enough magick to Cure. She has to rise every two hours during the nights to cast it, wearing her out faster than she would expect. The creatures she manages to hunt down turns more meager for each day that passes, hunger adding to the feeling of drain.

The sun is at its highest, burning her face as Fran again faces a day of repeating the pattern of putting one foot in front of the other through yellow grass, sand constantly finding its way into her shoes. She closes her eyes as has become a habit of doing, listening to Poison slowly sizzling inside her - then she hears it, a voice familiar, but not welcomed.

_An Antidote would be handy about now._

“Not you again”, she mutters.

_It would seem you would rather suffer a lone death than accepting the gift of life from a partner._

“I could suffer him no longer”, she says. “He wanted to make my choices for me, assuming he knew best.” The moment she says the words, she bites her tongue, having seen through his.

_He might claim he was only trying to gift you with life._

The frustration builds in her rapidly. “I know what you are trying to say, and while I admit to stripping Balthier of his free will, and to gift him not with life but the remorse of not granting life to me, you can not convince me the life he built for himself has been for nothing.”

_The experiences of his current life would remain unknown to him, had he stayed with you._

“He would have known, eventually. He would have grown old, looking back on what he had missed for deciding to stay with me.”

_Better to spare yourself of his regrets, then. Who would want to suffer such blame?_

Fran opens her eyes, the harsh daylight stinging her eyes. “Was that my motivation?” she whispers. “Did I really see that far ahead?”

The mask remains quiet.

“Tell me”, she hisses, “Tell me if this has been my Vieran spirit tricking me! Was it my ability to foreshadow that did this? The Viera always refuse to take thing head on if there is a tree to hide behind - did she insist I take the smoothest way out without my knowing?” She halts, gasping as she leans forward to place her hands on her knees. “Are you saying I never should have left the Wood, never left the people that would have understood my spirit and its stages of time? Have I been a lie my entire life, believing I could be one thing, another truly controlling all my decisions?”

_If I told you I could turn back time and put you back in the Wood, would you accept the offer?_

Fran pants, feeling Poison drain her towards the immediate need for another Cure. She stares at the dry grass, at the sand sticking to the dark skin on her feet, at the claws poking out through her shoes.

“No.”

She exhales, closing her eyes. “No. I would not have been without what I have lived through. I would not have been without the restoration of Dalmasca. I would not have been without the Strahl. And I would not - I would not have been without Balthier.”

_Your heart still longs for him._

“I… want him close. If I could stay in a night to which dawn would never come… he would be there.” She stands up slowly. "But our roads have parted ways. I must let his heart rest, as I must rest mine."

_A broken heart takes time to heal._

Fran frowns as she turns to the mask on her back. “Is that what this is?”

_If it is, then what will you do to soothe it?_

“Walk”, she says, turning to the horizon in front of her. “I will take one step at a time until I reach whatever I am meant to reach.” She stands up, clenching her heart to her chest as she begins casting Cure. The White magick nudges her softly as it fills her.

She puts one foot in front of the other, then the other in front of the first - a pattern repeated, slowly and steadily, just like the beating of her own heart.

¨

The mask stays quiet for the next days. It no longer feels heavy on her back, and in some strange way, Fran knows it will stay that way.

Even for her heart starting to heal, her shell is not doing so good. Poison is taking its toll. She knows she needs to find a village soon, or her life will end on these plains. She doesn’t fear for her life until she suddenly finds herself kneeling on the hard ground, having no concept of how long she has been doing so. _This is not good_ , she thinks, working up a Cure. Her magick is almost empty; she needs to keep moving, but even standing up is taking its time. As the hours pass, she starts remembering all those times her life has been in peril, and how she survived them, be it for help from a friend or of her own cunning. Out here, on these dry plains where creatures survive in shade and ground, there are no trees to hide in, no pool of Mist, no friend to find. Fran realizes then: She is alone, naked as she hasn’t felt since that dream she had years ago, when she found herself in a peach coloured ball room looking for Balthier, only to find Humes staring at her hears.

 _But I am not alone, not entirely_ , she thinks - there is still the mask on her back, a silent comfort, although it can do nothing to aid her.

When she first notices the flapping of wings behind her, she knows it’s very likely it is all over. She doesn’t turn back to see what is following her - it hardly matters. She doesn’t have enough magick left to fight it, much less strength to attack or run. The flapping has caught up with her within minutes, and so she waits for whatever will be her last experience in life, ready to die fighting.

She hears it then: The preparation of Scythe. That swishing sound, soft at first, building to a horrible roar. She curses the gods, curses the plains, curses the sky; she curses her own existence and the fact that it is ending, how she will be taken out in one single strike without being granted the honour of fitting in even a single punch. For a brief moment the world flashes white, then of a dirty brown, a sense of gravity hitting her that lets her know she will die a Viera, and not a Hume.

Her confusion is great when she awakes in her afterlife to stare into the masks of a group of Garif. “Am I to stay with the Garif, then?” she asks weakly, thinking how in the end, this makes sense. She left the Wood, she could not live with Humes, but the Garif always welcomed her.

Softly she is lifted off the ground by what seems to resemble Float.

“Strange”, she murmurs, then she drifts off as she is hit by something resembling Sleep.

¨

When she awakes, Confuse has worn off. She is dazed by a curing spell, her left leg heavy as stone. Her ribcage and arm are aching, changing between feeling burned and frozen to ice. The pain is inventive, but not overwhelming. Carefully she senses for missing limbs or lameness, but she appears to still be in one piece.

The surface beneath her back is hard, and in a way, rocking. She opens her eyes to stare at the blue sky above, a piercing sun glaring down at her. She lifts an arm to cover her eyes, hitting something lying next to her. She turns her head to stare at the mask.

“You are still here”, she smiles, and is glad to see him.

The rocking movement stops. Next the stretcher is lowered to the ground, a Garif staring down at her, his mask covering her from the harsh sun. “You are awake.”

Fran nods quietly. “My name is Fran.”

“Fran, my name is Velu. You will live.”

“You cast Scythe”, she says. “You saved me.”

The Garif nods. “You needed our aid. We must also admit were intrigued. It is uncommon to find a Viera with a Garif mask out on the plains.” There’s a question lingering between his words. “I was to return my friend to a female village on the Lazus”, Fran says. “He died trying to reach it. I wanted him to rest at his intended destination.”

Velu scratches the chin of his mask. “You will have to complete your quest later. We are on our way to a hunter camp nearby. That is where we are taking you.”

Fran nods. “Thank you.” She looks at the carving on Gumalu’s mask. “My quest… I believe it is completed already.”

The Garif brothers look at each other. “Very rarely do masks exchange owners”, one of them says.

Fran chuckles. “I believe you when you say so.”

They kneel to grab the stretcher, lifting it slowly towards the blue skies above.

¨

With five rested Garif to carry her, Fran reaches the hunter’s camp within days. It’s a small, temporary village consisting of eight tents, two of them larger than the others: One for prayers, the other for Nannas, a green-furred, four legged herding animal providing them with milk, wool and meat. Fran is fed a wonderful, hot stew made with Nanna meat, warming her bones along with the camp fire. The Garif keeps bringing her blankets, Fran thinking she must be a sorry sight for sure, thin as she already was when she crashed on the Lazus.

She sleeps for a day and a night, only interrupted by curing spells and more stew. She thanks the Garif as often as she is capable, even in her sleep, waking by her own voice thanking Garif that turns out to not be there.

On the third day she sits outside the praying tent preparing feathers for arrows, the once cursed sun now a blessing as it warms her back. Velu sits next to her, glancing over at her hands as she works.

“I never knew the one that wore your mask, but I knew of him. How he died, and who he passed his mask on to. I was sure it was she we had found.”

Fran nods. “Gumalu was his name. We hunted together for almost ten years. I was honoured by his choice.”

“But then it became a burden, I presume”, he asks honestly.

Fran runs her fingers over the black and white feather in her hand. “It told me things I at first did not want to hear.”

Velu nods.

“Forgive me for speaking so openly for having just met”, Fran says, “- I expect no answer from you on this. But why do you think the males and females of our races are so set on living apart?”

Velu scratches his chin. “We are born to serve the cycle along with our brothers or sisters, and die when we have played our part. Viera hear the Green word, Garif senses the earth. It is a tradition that in part makes us what we are. ”

“What happens when Garif stay away from the earth? Do they find something else to sense?”

“I do not know.” He scratches his chin again. “I have never been away long enough to tell. Maybe I would long for home. Or maybe I would, as you say, find something else to sense instead.”

Fran glances over at Gumalu’s mask where it rests against the tent. She knows then, what he meant to tell her.

“Maybe it is all about choice”, Fran says. “Maybe it does not matter what you choose to hear, as long as you find something to which you want to listen.”

Velu nods. “That sounds reasonable.”

¨

The sun is nearing its full height when Fran, sitting by one of the tents mending a basket, spots something moving in the far distance. “There is a Chocobo heading this way”, she says to Velu. “By the way it moves I am sure it has a rider.”

“A Chocobo”, Velu says, intrigued. “We don’t get many of them out here, at least not this time a year. We keep Greens for the few we find wandering.” He tries scouting for it. “A rider is even rarer.”

Fran keeps her eyes on the bird as it approaches them, its course suggesting it’s heading their way. From the size of its rider she can limit him down to either Bangaa, Rev or Hume - the lack of horns rules out Garif. As the rider approaches, she is sure he or she is Hume, then she sees he is male - she starts having suspicions, and hopes they are proven false. As the golden bird moves closer, she sharpens her eyesight to study the rider’s face.

Her blood freezes to ice.

“Velu, my friend”, Fran says, “I do not feel like talking too much with Humes these days. I know it is terrible of me to ask you to lie, but would you be so kind to do me the favour of telling him you have not seen Viera for weeks?”

“Oh”, he says, striking the chin on his mask. “I know you would not ask me had you not good reason.” He nods. “Very well. I will tell him should he ask.”

“Thank you”, Fran says easing into the shade of the tent like a child playing games. She feels smoked out of her hide - so many weeks spent remembering, then trying to forget Balthier’s words, and now he is here, with only yards to separate them. She finds her pulse rising. Why did he come for her, and on Chocobo, not in a ship? These lands are rough, even for an experienced rider on a Class A bird.

It seems like hours before she hears the soft padding of Chocobo feet approaching.

“Good afternoon”, Velu calls outside the tent. “Might I be of help?”

“Afternoon”, Fran hears Balthier say, her throat threatening to produce a cough. “I am here to inquire about a friend, maybe she came through here? She is Viera, skilled with weapons, quite thin, last seen wearing black and purple.” He pauses. “You would remember her.”

“Viera, you say”, Velu says, “they sometimes wander through here, but not very often. They usually trek further north.”

“So my search is in vain?”

 _Damn him for forcing the Garif to lie._ “I have not seen a Viera of the Wood for weeks.”

There is silence. “I am sad to hear it”, Balthier says. “May I use your well for the Chocobo?”

“Certainly. There is also hot stew should you wish it.”

“Thank you, but that won’t be necessary. I will be off shortly.” Fran recognizes the stubbornness in his voice, that childish arrogance caused by exhaustion, and knows he has been pushing too far for too long. Even for how much she knows they need to stay parted, Fran knows Balthier, and knows he won’t be stopping until he has finished his quest.

So she chooses the lesser of two evils.

Slowly she walks out from the tent. She sees he is filthy, his clothes ragged, his beard suggesting he’s been out for at least a couple of weeks. At the sight of her, his entire body freezes.

“You can end your pointless trekking”, Fran says.

“You are unharmed.” He exhales, then shakes his head, laughing. “Of course you are unharmed.” He looks at the reins in his hands. “Well then - I will be off.”

Fran intends to not argue, but Velu no longer has reason to let the Chocobo out of his sight. “Your bird is looking a little tattered in its feathers”, he says. “It is none of my business, and apologies for taking liberties, but I do love these birds. I would advise you to let yours rest. There’s plenty of Greens in the pen.”

Balthier looks down on his mount as he considers the offer. “Maybe you have a bird to trade?”

“Sadly, our pens are empty. Our Nannas are all up north grassing. There is plenty of room for your bird.”

Fran wants to protest on the offer, but knows that a Chocobo unable to outrun enemies is no good on the plains.

“Balthier”, she says, “stay and rest. I know you are tired.”

His eyes are grey and clear, contrasting his sun-tanned face. “You would know”, he says, and doesn’t seem pleased by admitting.

¨

Judging by the way Balthier dug into his bowl, food has been sparse the last few days. He is strangely silent as he sits by the freshly built fire, no longer smelling of sweat, wearing a clean shirt as his other hangs to dry in the tent behind them. Velu is grooming the Chocobo while Fran is left with nothing to do but sit by the fire listening to Balthier replying to her questions with one-word answers, ‘fine’ being the default.

“How long have you been on Chocobo back?” she tries as Balthier sips from a cup of warm mulled wine. “Almost two weeks”, he finally mutters as he steals a glare at Fran’s upper arms. He has never witnessed larger changes in her appearance before, save for her darkened tan. Clearly her weight loss disturbs him.

“Balthier”, Fran says quietly, pulling a knitted blanket around her shoulders, “there is no dense Mist to speak of here. Why did you come all this way on bird-back?”

He sips his drink, taking his time. “It took me time to find a ship to rent in Balfonheim. I had to knock on at least eight doors to find someone who could lend me a ship for more than a day.” He smirks as he stares down into his cup.” The ship turned out to be a _proper_ bucket. It broke down after just three days of travel, and there were no spare parts to buy. I had to trade her for that Chocobo.”

Fran frowns, her main concern not sharing how the Bucket in fact _did_ end up resembling its namesake. “I assume you came to Balfonheim to learn where I might have gone - but why did you not take the Strahl?”

Balthier snorts. “I tried. Your boyfriend wouldn’t let me.”

“My -- oh.”

“We had a little disagreement, he and I. In fact, our fists had a nice conversation.”

Fran groans as she leans back. “Oh gods.”

“Yes, it’s been a while since my back made acquaintances with the cold stone floor of the Whitecap. In those days though, I was usually drunk.” He snickers. “It would seem I truly no longer am a pirate. All those hours spent in a chair, and it didn’t do anything to prevent _rider’s arse_.”

“Balthier --”

“He took me out in less than two strikes, Fran. Good thing I brought Potions.” His smile is thin.

“I’m sorry”, Fran mumbles.

“Don’t apologize. I insisted on taking his woman’s property, it was his right to stop me.” He stares into the fire. "They say the Strahl hasn't left the docks since it arrived.”

“They speak the truth.”

“It might seem like my gift was another failed attempt at doing something right with you." He grimaces. "One in a series of many."

“Do not say that. I appreciate your effort, and I offer you my belated thanks for your gift. But the Strahl was never my freedom, Balthier.” She feels his eyes on her through the flames. “It would seem I was never anything resembling free. I have been Viera since I left the Wood, a Viera straying where she should not. I was not made for the life I have chosen.”

The fire crackles merrily as Balthier stays quiet for a good period of time.

"You could hear her heart where I could not."

Fran frowns.

Balthier smirks, the first grimace he’s shown so far resembling a smile. "You don’t remember? All those little knocks and squeezes, the tiny sounds from the engine only your Vieran ears could hear. In many ways - in many ways I didn't truly know my ship until you came aboard. You knew her _heart_."

Fran stares at him.

“That’s why I’d figured, in the end, she had to go to you. Nobody knows her like you do.” He downs his drink, then clears his throat. “I am past revisiting old days, Fran. They did a number on me last time, and I do not wish for a repeat.” He stands up.

“I am sorry”, she starts, but he waves her off. “I’m sleeping with the bird. He’s quite comfortable for a bedwarmer. He’s given me more warmth than any woman will deign herself to these days.” He picks up his pouch. “I’ll be leaving early in the morning, don’t wait up. Tell the Garif thank you for me. I’ll be leaving an Elixir as payment.”

“Balthier”, Fran calls in a way that surprises even herself, “you do not seem pleased by finding me.”

He pauses, as if contemplating his words before speaking. “I will return the favour of holding back words that would only hurt you.”

“No”, Fran says. “Do me the favour of returning my honesty.”

He smiles in a way Fran would except from Claire, never from Balthier. “Don’t get excited, though. It’s merely a story about a boy.”

Fran sits up. “Then tell me this story.”

“All right”, he says, making no move to sit down. “It’s a story about a boy who had problems relating to his father. A boy who needed someone new in his life, someone who would love him not just for the sake of love, but to trust him enough to let him grow into the man he needed to become. All his life he had been restless, not knowing peace. Then along came this someone who would give him the time and quiet to let his thoughts settle.”

“I know this story”, Fran says. “There is no need for you to tell it.”

“You might”, Balthier says, “and you might not.”

“Finish your story then.”

“This boy would never make a threat he didn’t intend to keep. One day he heard rumours of his Vieran friend living a lifestyle a bit too uncaring even for her, having him spend weeks growing worried, until one day he heard another rumour she was missing. Every day he considered dropping what was in his hands to go look for her, which would surely lose him his position.”

“I would never ask this of anyone”, Fran mutters.

“Aye, you already caught the moral of the story”, Balthier says, “which is that attachment always has a price. Even for never being asked to look for her, the boy couldn’t help himself from wanting to do so, even for the losses he might face because of it.”

“I did not ask you to come look for me, Balthier.”

“This is correct, and if I was the one to decide, I never would.”

Fran looks at him, confused.

“There is a twist to this story, you see. One could say your attachment to this boy never did him any good, but that would be lying.

Fran scoffs. “Where are you going with this?”

“I tried explaining to her how her son would start some insane trek across Ivalice to look for his tutor, and she knew I was right. Her response to being forced into this corner was trying to make our wedding porcelain fly; turns out it can’t.”

Fran’s mouth drops open.

“In the end I had no choice. I could not have Snow lose his apprenticeship.”

“The boy in your story is Snow”, Fran says dumbly.

Balthier snorts a laugh. “It’s nice to know you still have your wits, as I still have mine.” He gathers his poach. “You have had your explanation. Good night.”

Fran glares at him as he heads for the Nanna pen. As if her body has taken control over her mind, she rises to follow him. “You asked me”, she says. “You asked for my help with Snow!”

“I’ll never regret asking you to work with him, because I believe he wouldn’t have come this far had you not nurtured him. I think Claire still wishes we never did, though.” He turns to her. “Do you?”

“Yes - no - Balthier, you cannot hold me accountable for his actions!”

“Did I say I was? I don’t remember doing so.” He enters the large opening to the tent partly covering the pen.

“When I started tutoring Snow, it was never my intention to hurt you!”

“Still you shared with him my little secret regarding you.”

Fran inhales. “That was a mistake! A mistake I regret dearly, but he begged me for the truth and I could not bring myself to lie - you would tell me to lie to a young boy desperate for any truth that would tell him something about who he is? Do you not see - in the end, Humes learn to deceive and lie, to pretend to love, desperate to survive each other’s company. I was not made to pay that price, Balthier, I was made to listen to the truth of the Wood.”

“Then what did you want from _me_ , Fran? All those years, already decided you would die alone, still spending time in my company - were you some leech? An emotional freerider?” He stares at the Chocobo inside the pen, cleaning its feathers with its beak. “They were words of comfort, then. When you said you once wanted me.”

Fran’s pulse throbs as she glares at him, her blood starting to boil. “I already told you, I did want you --”

“Once, perhaps, but no more, right? I wouldn’t blame you. A has-been Pirate who falls to the floor by a single punch, fatiguing by a few days on Chocobo. A dishonest, weak man, fantasizing about his Vieran partner as he teaches his daughter to tie her shoelaces.” He starts fastening the pouch to the Chocobo saddle hanging on the fence. “I will try to let you go, Fran - again.” His movements are brisk. “But it would help if you’d stop tripping me in my effort.”

The tent is quiet, save for the soft cackling of the Chocobo happily eating his greens. Fran stares at the sunburnt skin at the back of Balthier’s neck as he fiddles with the leather straps. She remembers then, the sensation of warm skin and a beating pulse beneath his shirt, his breath on her neck, his palm against hers; a hand on the small of her back, firmly planted, holding what he wanted to hold that she denied him. She remembers a loss of control, a letting go of a throttle, an airship losing all sense of gravity to have her stomach tingle. Dots of green and grey darting towards her, a Balthier who resolutely steers clear of the danger on instinct alone.

Her breath is caught in her throat, then she feels it - not her breath, not her sweat, not her extraordinary strength - over the once quiet sound of wind rustling in the leaves, of birds and bees, she no longer hears the sound of the Wood, but the beating of her own heart, pounding so hard it numbs her ears.

“I want you.”

Balthier halts his movements.

“I want you”, she says again, as if her newfound heartbeat has set her voice on repeat.

Balthier’s hands goes back to working the buckles. Slowly he contemplates her words, then chuckles lightly. “What will you do with this want, then? Did you want to live with me or some such? You must remember I am still a married man.”

Fran glares at him, her palms sweaty. “You know I did not think that far ahead with this.”

“A little out of character for you, is it not?” He finishes buckling, then leans on the fence, smirking. “A treat as rare as the face you pull when you’re yet to figure out your next move.” His eyes glisten. “I like this face.”

“You were mine”, Fran says, “you were mine long before she had you.”

There were times in their early days of piracy when Balthier would forget to be either pirate, soldier or flirt. He would simply be himself, looking out the window of the Strahl on a sunny day, his face mirroring being freed from all thought, free of worry; an expression of peace. It is the same emotion now lingering on his face.

“I still am.”

Carefully Fran studies his face for traces of doubt, but there is none to find. The void that once lingered between them slowly evaporates as she takes the few steps needed to close the gap between them, no hesitations left in her as she wraps her arms around his neck. His stubble tickles her cheek as his arms slides around her back, holding her tighter than he ever dared.

“I long for you”, she says as they finally allow their embrace to grow intimate. “Ever since we parted ways.”

“Do you trust me?”

“Always.”

¨

There was a night many years ago, spent together under the black sky of the Ozmone, their companions gone off to spend some much needed time in solitaire. Fran and Balthier, as was their usual, felt no need to split. Fire warmed their knees as they sat by the campfire, enjoying a pipe to soothe their full stomachs.

“You stayed with the Garif for some time, didn't you?” Balthier asked Fran as he inhaled deeply from the pipe.

Fran shook a strand of hair out of her face. “Many years ago. Not this particular village, but one very close by.”

He blew smoke as he handed her the pipe. “Life is full of coincidences.”

“And of similarities”, Fran said, putting her lips to the pipe as Balthier watched her, thoughtful.

“I should have known my father would be involved in this”, he said after some time. “I thought I was freed of him, freed from my past. And here we are, searching for knowledge on the very stuff my father placed all of his interest in.”

“The Princess thirsts for the Nethicite, yet she is not without sanity.” Fran handed him the pipe back with a smile to go. “You are right to do this.”

Balthier smirked. “I have no clue of what you speak, my dear. I am purely in it for the pay, as you are.” He inhaled again, closing his eyes, his brow furrowed in a way that made him look older than his years. He tilted his head back, opening his eyes to gaze at the sky.

“Animals”, he said.

“‘Animals in the sky’ require clouds, Balthier. This sky is clear.”

He passed her the pipe. “There are stars.”

“Clouds drift and change; stars are fixed. There would be no new animals for you to find, only the same old ones, again and again. You would not like it.”

“Perhaps it would be a welcomed change. Requires less thinking. I might even grow attached to them. ‘Oh look there’s that Wyrm again! Hello Wyrm! Fred, is it?’” He snorted a laugh, amused by his own words.

Fran watched him carefully as she drew from the pipe.

¨

A prototype Archadian fighter as she is, the _Strahl_ had it in her to take them high, higher than most ships will fly, yet never high enough to touch the stars. Similar to a black sky separating earth and stars, Fran always wisely kept her distance to Balthier, insisting there be space between them. Now that earth and stars have met, it should feel different than what they have shared before, and yet, it does not. There is a comfort to his smell, to his touch, a familiarity that Fran did not expect to find.

“Fran, you have grown too thin”, Balthier mumbles against her neck, a hand gently covering the ribs on her back.

“I am the same Fran”, Fran says, reconfirming her grip around his neck.

“Not quite”, he says, a tensity to his words she understands all too well. She breathes in the scent of his skin, awakening an urge to know about him what she has yet to learn: His taste, his sound, his preference. His clothes is becoming a cruel denial of his skin, the warmth beneath them begging to be sampled.

“Between the two of us, you are the one familiar to firing without a plan”, she says, feeling his pulse rise rapidly as she does. “I might have to seek your advice.”

Balthier chuckles, his fingers suddenly nervous against her back. “You presume I would know where to start with you, Fran, when really I haven’t the faintest idea.”

She teaches him then, slowly, as he does for her, until straws of hay are poking uncomfortably into their backs, a sufficient amount of their clothes loosened or tossed aside. Balthier tries to strangle a yawn as Fran takes his hand to kiss it, shifting to have his head rest against her bare shoulder. His finger moves lazily to caress the soft skin above her breast. “I do wonder”, he murmurs, “how it is possible to be so completely content and so completely miserable at the same time.”

The hand resting on his back moves to embrace him, to comfort.

They lay like this for some time, fingertips travelling over skin while listening to the Chocobo eating its Greens. “Do you think he enjoyed the show?” Balthier snickers. When the bird tucks his beak under his wing to sleep, it is without Balthier's knees nudging him in the back.

¨

The sun is rising as Fran rests the back of her head on Balthier’s stomach, endlessly studying the fingers on one of his hands as he uses his other to free her silver hair of the straws of hay it has done a fine job gathering.

“I assume the village has no modern means of communication”, he says.

“There are no inns or taverns in these parts. You might as well go straight to Rabanastre.”

“Will you come with me?”

“I will”, Fran says. “For the ferry. I should return to Balfonheim.”

Balthier fights a straw, trying to get it out of her hair without pulling. “I need to get back to the house. I don’t know for how long.”

Fran puts her palm against his, measuring the lengths of their fingers. “I am thinking I might be done with Balfonheim.”

“Where will you go?”

Fran flaps an ear. “I was always fond of the city of Rabanastre. ”

Balthier yawns, freeing the straw from her hair. “So was I.”

Fran chuckles. “You could never live there. Snow would not appreciate you staying so close.”

“It’s a big city”, he murmurs. “He’d get by.”

¨

They depart a few hours later, leaving the Chocobo with a much happy Velu. It takes them two days to reach the city border, stopping ever so often to replenish their energy, keeping each other warm at night.

As they stand on top of a cliff facing the gates of Rabanastre, Balthier lets go of Fran’s hand, taking two steps forward to watch the city quietly.

“We do not have to do this”, Fran says, hesitating. “We can leave this behind.”

“I couldn’t. Not now, with this done.” He sighs. “I know my motivations are selfish.”

Fran quiets for a few moments. “Something… Gumalu said.”

“Gumalu?”

“-- about burdening another with decisions they should not have to make. This, with you and I, perhaps it is a responsibility your daughters should not have to carry.”

Balthier sighs. “I know. I feel terrified of being the one to blame for their parents no longer living under the same roof.”

“No, not the responsibility for you leaving - for staying.”

Balthier frowns. “How do you mean?”

“Take Fira - she will grow up to be a woman one day, perhaps struggling with love on her own. Were we to not do this, and she was to learn it was partly because of her, it would perhaps make her feel accountable.”

Balthier chuckles. “You really would say anything to make me feel better.”

Fran smiles.

“Well then”, he says. “Until next time.”

“Whenever next time will be.”

Fran’s senses tell her to ask him to change his mind, to conceal what has passed between them, to lie and die as a married man. But this time she will not. This time she will not let him go.

He leaves first, as decided. Fran watches his shape turn smaller and smaller until she sees him reach the city gate, and then he is gone.

¨

Fran arrives in Balfonheim the same afternoon to pick up her belongings and her ship. At the Whitecap she is greeted with smiles and frowns both - the Innkeeper shakes her hand welcoming her back, saying it is good to see her looking well again. When she explains her wants to settle the bill for her room for the past months, he shakes his head. It appears her belongings were all moved to the Strahl weeks ago.

Her gut knits ever so slightly as she heads for the docks. The Strahl has been moved to a more permanent stall, a much smaller one than her last. She slips in through the door, hoping she will find the ship abandoned. But as she heads for its main entrance, it opens.

Louis smiles as he sees her. “So you have made it back! I knew you would. You always come out at the other end alive, Viera.” When he moves to embrace her, she moves out of his way.

“Certain things have changed”, she mutters.

Louis freezes. “Don’t tell me”, he says, “don’t tell me he found you, that you fell for his twisted tongue, the same tongue that charmed everyone into giving away your ship, every single person but the very one standing before you. What was it, his gil? Settling for your retirement, are you? I didn’t think you were _that_ old.”

“You are using quite the ensemble of words for someone who did not come looking for me”, Fran says.

“You told me specifically not to!”

Fran scoffs. "You never listened to my requests before. Why would you start now?"

He pauses. "Maybe I wanted to change."

Fran’s throat feels dry. “You would never change enough for me to trust you.”

Louis gesticulates wildly. “I have been by your side for almost ten years! What have I ever done that was not in your own best interest?”

“You withheld my letters, Louis! You hid the bills! You refused to hand over my ship to the one person who would go looking for me!”

“Only because I knew it was best for you! What good would it do you to constantly be going back to a man who only seeks you for his own gain? You sometimes don’t know you own good Fran, like with the smoking. I paid two months rent for you before finding the bill posted by that betraying Gair Hostegar. You would have let me pay two more before staggering home to Balfonheim.”

“They would have put aside my few possessions and asked for a small fee for the storage. Paying my rent was none of your concern.”

Louis stares at her, stubborn. “Who are you trying to convince, Viera?” he sneers. “This man, leaving his wife and children for you, how long do you think it will last? He knows not his place. This the very reason I never set a woman’s womb to quicken - I am not fit for family life, I would end up leaving, and this I know. The only family I should keep close are my fellow hunters.” His eyes pierce her. “And my woman.”

Fran shifts uncomfortably. “You are my woman, Fran”, Louis says. “I always did what you asked, and I took care of your ship. This is your home. Do not waste yourself on a man who knows no loyalty.”

Fran exhales, red eyes seeking his blue. Her ears flick. "I would rather have him love me now and despise me later than to never have had his love at all."

Louis scoffs. “ _Love_. I thought you had learned. Love is a luxury for the privileged, lasting only a short time, more often than not ending up ruining people’s lives. We were partners, you and I. We worked well together, because we never let our emotions get in the way.”

Fran tilts her head, deeming the words she is about to say unnecessary: Louis understands the contradictions in his own words. His face darkens until there is no expression of care left, the only thing remaining on it a shadow.

“You will have to fight me to get past me”.

“Fight you?” Fran breathes. “End your children’s games Louis, she is my ship. I did not ask you to care for her.”

Yet Louis stands tall, not moving an inch. “Care for her I did, and it will not be for nothing.”

“Louis --”

“No. If this is what is left between us, I will go the length. You either finish me, or I finish you, and I take my reward for all this misery you have caused me.”

Fran looks at the Strahl, looks at Louis, at the pulse beating on his neck, beholds his clenched fists, the stress she can smell on his skin. This heartache will heal, as it would with her had Balthier not found her. Or so she must believe.

Without a word she turns and walks away.

“Fran!” he calls after her, a desperation in his voice she did not expect to hear, causing a pain she did not expect to feel. Her heart skips a beat, her palms turning sweaty. The trio is no more, parted by death - and love. She pictures Gumalu’s mask in her mind, hears his words -- _It is what you left the Wood to learn, is it not? To live with heart and choice, rather than rules and limitations?_

Fran clenches her teeth. She has made her choice.

¨

She returns to Rabanastre the next day, stepping through the gate to the Aerodrome. The scent of bazaars, waterways and city life tickles her nose. She was always fond of this place.

Her first stop is the Muthru Bazaar. She hasn’t tasted roasted Flan for a very long time, and as she used to do years ago while Balthier was off to treat his lovers, she sits on the stone stairs, watching the city live roll by.

A few hours later she wanders through the commercial district, asking her way for the weaponry she knows Snow works. She finally recognizes the sign, entering the narrow, crammed but tidy shop. “The lad? He’s in the workshop in the back. Go see him if you like”, the Seeq with the leather apron tells her.

She walks through the shop, entering the stone-covered back yard. Snow sits by a wooden table, looking frustrated as his fingers works with a tiny string and a feather.

His hands stills as he sees her.

“Hello”, Fran says a little awkwardly.

“You’re back.” He looks her up and down. “You look thin.”

“Did Balthier not tell you I was coming here?”

“He did.”

The silence that follows stings.

“I see you have settled in”, Fran says. “I am sorry I did not take you, and I am sorry for disappearing.”

The teen glares at her, then goes back to his arrows. “I need to make thirty of these”, he says. “So far I have almost two. Care to help cheat me out of a few?”

“Of course.”

Fran sits down on the other side of the table, starting to bind feathers to one of the bolts. For a long time they work in silence like they have many times before.

Snow puts down a finished arrow. “You never hide the truth, Fran. You only quiet it.” He glares at her.

Fran exhales, knowing Balthier have chosen to be honest with him. “Snow, I…take full blame for what my actions might have caused. I made a selfish choice. You are welcome to despise me. Not just for abandoning you, but for getting more involved with your father than I intended.”

Fran shifts, watching him as he fiddles with a feather.

“I knew this would happen sooner or later. Probably just as well it was sooner.” He holds out a hand for another feather, which she hands over.  “I don’t regret asking him to go.” His eyes are fixed on the bolt. “I just - I don’t think I could handle it if you died, Fran.”

Fran stares at him, at his fingers fiddling with the feathers, just as he did the day she first started tutoring him, when he was all apprehensive and obnoxious. For having come a long way, living on his own in Rabanastre, he is still a boy, struggling with his own insecurities.

 _We need each other for selfish reasons, and so it is inevitable we end up hurting each other_ , Fran thinks, looking at the kid who revealed her need to nurture, to feel needed. She knows she would never trade away learning to know him, not for anything.

“Thank you”, she says, “for being persistent about finding me. You know I am here should you need me… no matter what happens.”

A boy at the age of seventeen would never express more than one genuine emotion a day, and so Snow scoffs.

Fran looks up at the blue sky above the City of Rabanastre.

“It will start raining soon”, Snow says. “When the rain settles, there’s usually some pretty fun monsters popping up on the Giza.

“Then”, Fran says, “I think we should go see them.”

¨

For the next few weeks, Fran lodges in a common room above the Sandsea. She occasionally eats with members of Clan Centurio, refusing any offer for a permanent job, saying she is only staying temporarily - for now, at least, until she figures out what to do next. She borrows some of Snow’s weapons to make enough to buy a new bow, then enough to keep her floating from day to day.

It is from the Clan she receives the first clue Balthier has not changed his mind about her. Krjn hands her an envelope during dinner one night. “Bold of them to leave it with us, since you are not a member of our clan”, she says, pulling the envelope back as Fran reaches for it. “Join us, and you can have it.”

Fran only smirks, Krjn flicking an ear very subtly as she hands it over. Fran tucks the letter in her pocket, waiting until she has a quiet moment alone outside the Sandsea to read it.

In it is a key and a tiny note, reading _I will be home on the 25th._ Fran weighs the small key in her hand. _Home._ The letter mentions no address, but Fran suspect she will soon learn. She uses her dagger and some thread to make a small pocket for it on the inside of her newly fitted gown.

One night in the Sandsea they are joined by Amal, the owner of the largest weaponry shop in Rabanastre. “Would you believe my misfortune - two of my staff are ill, the third away visiting his mother at Phon. And the Clan is surprisingly busy this time of the year!” he says, glaring over at Kjrn.

“What kind of assistance do you require?” Fran asks. “And for how long?”

And so, in addition to the countless different types of jobs Fran has taken during her lifetime, she adds ‘shop staff replacement’ to the list. It doesn’t pay well, but it keeps her busy during the nights, keeping her daytime open for visiting Snow should he want her help. One day he asks Fran to go testing a few daggers from the armoury with him, to which she gladly accepts. Fighting the odd monster with Snow always leads to fun in the most unexpected of scenarios - however on this day, he is restless, unfocused. Fran doesn’t ask, but waits for him to speak.

“I’ve been asked to come home for a few days”, he finally says as they have but a few hundred yards left before reaching the city gate. “We’re all going fishing or something.”

Fran senses his worries. “You are under no obligation to swear loyalty to me, Snow.”

“I’m not like you”, he says. “I can’t quiet truths. They slip out somehow anyway.”

“Maybe that is not such a bad thing. Secrets can hurt.”

“Like your affections for my father?” His face instantly grows full of regrets. “I’m sorry.”

“This is not easy on anyone”, Fran says as they enter the city. “Choose sides if you must, but remember you do not have to.”

Snow stares at his boots. “I’ll try.”

He leaves for home a few days later. With Snow being gone and not much else to do, Fran heads to the armoury earlier than her usual. She is polishing katanas in the storage of the armoury as Amal comes up to her. “I thought you would like to know”, he says, “your old Buckaboo partner has tried making gil off your ship on the black market.”

Fran doesn’t take her eyes off the blade. “I am not surprised.”

“He’s demanding a considerable price for her as well. It has not yet been met, but one day it will. If I was you, I would act.”

Fran lets the cloth slide slowly over the blade. "There is a chance he will find a new partner to fly her with before then.”

“Even so, I could offer you the manpower to get her. Shouldn't be too hard, even against a trained hunter.”

“His honour dictates he fights to his death. I would rather he keep his life.”

Amal grunts. “So you wait for the day of your ship slipping through your fingers?”

Fran stands up to place the katana back in the wooden holders with the others. “Even if I was to fetch the Strahl, she is too costly for one person to keep. All I have left is the clothes on my back and a few weapons.”

He frowns. “I do not understand you, Viera. You went from all to nothing, and you would choose to stay that way.”

Fran smiles.

“Oh”, he says, “this arrived for you.” He hands her an envelope with Balthier’s handwriting on the front. He appears to have learned where Fran works. She watches Amal leave, then opens it to pull out a note. _Fran. I could write for hours, but I’d rather tell you everything in person. Things are rocky, but according to plan. I have nightmares you’ve changed your mind. Please don’t change your mind? I’m not worthy of your trust. Or you. I said I wouldn’t write for hours. I miss you. xxx_

As she suspected, flipping the note over she finds an address.

¨

The day that follows three days later, the date reading the 25th, is a slow afternoon in the shop when the bell sounds. Fran lifts her gaze from the book she is reading, freezing immediately.

The blonde is still strikingly attractive, hands tucked into the front pockets of a modern, beige coat.

“Fran”, she says.

Fran folds the book and puts it slowly down on the counter. “Claire.”

“How have you been?” she asks, barely glancing at the Viera, walking towards one of the shelves holding weapons, her heels clacking resolutely against the floor.

“Good”, Fran says, hesitating.

Claire smirks. “He didn’t tell you, did he. That I was coming with him.”

Fran stares at her.

Claire picks up a crossbow from the shelf, studying it. “Balthier is fond of leaving out the details.” She smiles. “You’ll get used to it.”

Fran shifts uncomfortably. “My apologies, Claire, for playing my part in this.”

“I was once where you are now, remember?” Her fingers runs down the wooden centerpiece of the bow. “Time flies, and with it, things can change quite rapidly.” She turns to Fran, a very small smile lingering on her lips. “Do you believe it will be worth it?”

Fran considers for a second. “Was it, for you?”

Claire loses the smile. “Let’s be honest, Fran. You know me well enough to know I will not be gentle, should my temper find it convenient.” She cocks the crossbow, its spring creaking under the pull. “I will work with you both, for the sake of my children.”

Fran nods slowly.

“I will not, however, agree to Balthier having left me for another woman, because that is not how it came to pass.”

Fran’s ear twitches. “How did it come to pass, then?”

Claire smiles sweetly. “We agreed on ending our marriage, and then, lacking imagination as men always do, he decided to go for the first woman that crossed his path, which”, she snorts, “dull as it sounds, happened to be an old friend, a Viera pulled up by the root, amongst all her strange professions recently tutoring his children.” She turns to Fran, a strange smirk on her face. “I’d say that’s a fair version of the story.”

Fran knows this version to not be completely untrue; it is simply lacking a few details. “A story will always depend on its context”, she says slowly. “I will not dispute it.”

“Good.” Claire places the crossbow back in its place. “Right”, she says, straightening her coat, suddenly looking awkward, vulnerable through her mask, like she was on the day she first set foot in the Whitecap, not knowing the path fate was about to take her down. “Thank you for listening.” She shoots Fran’s ears a look, inhaling to speak - then she pauses, an unreadable expression on her face. Rapidly she turns for the door. “Good day.”

“Good day”, Fran says, watching her exit. She lets the silence fill the room before walking over to the shelf holding the crossbow. Slowly she lets her fingers glide over the weapon, feeling its surface with her fingertips.

¨

At six, Fran stands outside a tall apartment door in a relatively good neighbourhood in the City of Rabanastre. The key unlocks the door to what is now Balthier’s apartment, the first thing Fran notices being a rather large window in what appears to be the livingroom and kitchen in one. She places her gift on the small dinner table, then walks towards the window, gazes out to find it overlooking a small square with a fountain, around it playing a few children. The apartment is small; Balthier has obviously put his gil in location over comfort, making it a better place for his children to visit.

Balthier did not say when he would arrive, and so Fran removes the quiver from her back, sitting down on the windowsill, pulling a few boxes out of her bag. She works on her arrows for hours as everyday life passes by outside: Children being called in, workers returning to their homes, night salesmen going for their shifts. The room dims, but the moon is out, having it soon bathe in silver.

Fran is resting the back of her head against the window frame, almost dozing off, when she hears the door unlock.

Balthier freezes in the doorway as he sees her. “Your hair is the colour of the moon”, he murmurs.

“That took you long enough”, Fran smiles, rubbing an eye.

“I’m sorry”, he says, putting down his bag. “Do you trust me when I say I am here to stay?”

Fran sits up in the window to have the room be filled with moonlight, and in it, Balthier’s face turns pale blue, making him resemble a statue. Yet he is no statue, no mask; Fran can hear the distinct sound of his heartbeat.

“I trust you”, she says.

A small smile, yet he does not move. Fran cocks an eyebrow. “Will you be standing there for long?”

Balthier chuckles. “It’s silly.”

She tilts her head.

“Clearly I need to be reminded I can do this.”

He reaches her, his body warm against her thighs. “You filled out”, he says when their mouths part, his hands sliding up her sides. “I like it. Let me guess - Muthru Bazaar, roasted Flan? --ow”, he laughs at the well deserved pinch placed on his waist.

His hands stills as he notices her present on the table. “You bought a plant.”

Fran’s ears flap content. “We seem unable to keep ships these days, and I could not get ahold of a Malboro.”

Balthier places a kiss on her jawline. “You know my sentiments towards all of that.”

Moving to embrace him, Fran accidentally knocks one of her wooden boxes to the floor. The lid breaks off, its contents escaping to glide freely across the room, landing softly where they would choose: Her very finest of red feathers.

 

THE END

 

 


End file.
